


Bruises On Your Thighs (Like My Fingerprints)

by RedTeamShark



Series: American Beauty/American Psycho [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alpha!Rumlow, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blowjobs, Deaf Clint Barton, Developing Relationship, Discussions of mpreg, Gratuitous HGTV References, Heat Suppressors, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mild Consent Issues - See Notes, Minor Character Death, Minor Child Character Death, Natasha Romanoff is a Good Bro, Phenotype Alterations, Unprotected Sex, discussions of pregnancy, double agent, handjobs, omega!Clint, safe sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2020-09-23 01:43:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 44,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20331985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedTeamShark/pseuds/RedTeamShark
Summary: “Nothing gets an Omega compliant like a little family to look out for, Rumlow. If you can flip an Avenger to our side, there’s a bright future for you and him.”--It's nothing but another mission for Brock Rumlow, S.H.I.E.L.D. S.T.R.I.K.E. Commander and undercover Hydra agent. Clint Barton is a target, an objective, an Omega that the Alpha need only manipulate into sex. It's a success as soon as he steps into the room, even if he keeps finding reasons to not just hold the heat-rattled Omega down and force him to take his knot.Nothing Barton could do would change the outcome of this.Nothing.(Roughly canon compliant with Captain America: The Winter Soldier, if there was A/B/O and the timeline was sped up and also Clint was around.)





	1. Just One Mistake (Is All It Will Take)

**Author's Note:**

> ***Mild Consent Issues: Brock's original intent is to manipulate Clint into sex for Hydra's purposes. He never reveals this fact to Clint during their relationship, though his motivations and intentions change as the story progresses.
> 
> Listen I am a Thirsty Bitch, I have nothing to apologize for.
> 
> Big giant shout out to Mika for being my number one filthy enabler on all things A/B/O.

Christ, the shit S.H.I.E.L.D. has hanging out in their basements.

Brock Rumlow swipes his temporary pass through four layers of security, expecting to be turned away at each and every one of them. Surely someone (Romanoff, possibly Hill, maybe even Fury himself) has seen the clearance granted to him and worked quickly to revoke it.

It’s one thing to have analysts or techies or even front door security who are Omegas, but a fucking Avenger? That’s a shitshow waiting to happen.

He swipes the card at the last layer of security and lets himself in to the apartment. The smell of an Omega in heat, a bitch waiting to get knocked up, is cloying, making him swell in his pants involuntarily.

_ “Nothing gets an Omega compliant like a little family to look out for, Rumlow. If you can flip an Avenger to our side, there’s a bright future for you and him.” _

Pierce had given him the clearance and the go-ahead and the information. It was their best shot at getting the man vulnerable, all things considered. Magic and bullshit are respectively above and below Rumlow’s pay grade, but he knows a mission when he’s given one.

He assesses the room slowly, the small S.H.I.E.L.D. apartment that looks so normal, like it’s not fifteen stories underground, just outside of the DC metro area. A living room with a couch, coffee table, and television, a small desk with a laptop under a screen livestreaming the exterior of the building, offering some semblance of life on the surface. The space is split in half by a wide island, barstools on this side and the galley kitchen opposite. Nicer than his own apartment in Alexandria. He moves through it, runs his fingers over the smooth marble countertops, opens the fridge and finds it stocked with bottled water and a number of easy meals. The freezer only has ice, but he takes a few cubes and crunches down on them.

Most of the cupboards are empty, a couple of bowls and plates, a couple of glasses. More easy-to-cook meals in the pantry at the end of the counters.

He comes around the island and steps into the short hallway. Three doors, left, right, and center, all shut tight. The stench of an Omega in heat is strongest from the left, so he goes to the right, first. It’s a bathroom, sparkling white tile and porcelain, a glass-enclosed shower as well as a deep tub with jets. His apartment only has space for a shower stall, not that he particularly minds. Rollins swears by a hot bath after a long day, but sitting in a tub of his own sweat just sounds nasty.

The middle door is a closet, a stack of fresh linens on the shelves. It doesn’t go as far back as the bathroom did, so there must be another closet in the bedroom for clothes. Not that he expects to find his assignment dressed.

With almost the entire room assessed, he goes back to the kitchen, takes a bottle of water and a simple salad from the fridge. He’d think S.H.I.E.L.D. would spring for something good, like a decent steak, but then again, no one who uses these apartments is in any shape for anything more strenuous than a microwave.

Finally, Rumlow lets himself into the bedroom, resolutely ignoring the stench of heat, the throb of his cock in his pants. He crosses the room slowly, sets the water bottle and the salad on the table next to the bed, and touches a hand to his new mission’s trembling shoulder. “Hey.”

Clint Barton has him on the ground with his arm twisted behind his back before he can blink.

Damn, no wonder this guy’s an Avenger.

* * *

“I’m not here to fuck you,” Rumlow repeats for roughly the tenth time, his hands moving with his mouth. Barton stares at him, the knife he’d snatched off Rumlow’s belt (like hell he was going in unarmed, he’d foolishly decided) still pointed at the man’s throat. There’s a fine tremor in his legs and he’s compulsively licking his lips, but his hand is steady, his eyes are steady. Rumlow wonders how bad his sign language is, if he’s accidentally sending a mixed message.

“Back against the wall.” Barton speaks slowly, his words unsteady, a little slurred. If it’s the heat or his inability to hear himself, Rumlow’s not sure, but he keeps his hands up and takes a step back to the wall. Slowly, carefully, Barton’s other hand reaches out, feels the table and lifts two items. He presses the one into his right ear carefully, switches the hand holding the knife and places in the left. “Your mouth is saying you’re not here to fuck me, but your hands are saying nonsense.”

“I’m not here to fuck you.”

“Just came down to see the show, then?”

He weighs his options and decides the truth is best. Well, some of the truth. “Pierce told me that you were down here riding out a heat. Asked me to come take care of you. Not like--any of that, just... When’s the last time you drank anything? Ate? Had a bath?”

Barton’s gaze falters for a second, before landing on him again. “We’re not mates, I don’t need you ‘taking care’ of me.” His stomach rumbles, however, answering to the mere thought of food.

“More reason why I’m not interested in fucking you through it. Drink the water and eat the salad. I’ll make something a bit more filling with what’s in the kitchen.” There’s still mistrust in those brown eyes, the knife is still in Barton’s hand. Rumlow pinches the bridge of his nose lightly. “It’s fucked up, what happened to you with Loki. I don’t get it, but Pierce says they took you off all your meds. You’ve been on suppressors for a while, right?”

“Since I joined up.”

“I had a couple of Omegas in my unit, back in my Army days. We got trapped behind enemy lines, back before suppressors were standard issue. Couple days in, one of’em went into it bad. For the first two days, the other Omega and myself kept all the guys away from’im, even though he was practically crying for it. Only time he’d calm down was when I was close. So finally I let Bradshaw, my second, get close to him, too. Me on one side, Bradshaw on the other, he managed to calm down enough to drink some water, eat some food, get some sleep. Still had to ride it out, but at least one of us stayed close to him, hands to ourselves, until his heat was over. If you’ve got a mate you’re set, but if not… Having an Alpha around, one that can keep it in their pants unless otherwise requested, is about the only thing that makes it easier.” Some of that little speech was planned--making it easier, his past experience. He hadn’t meant to get into the details. For that matter, he hadn’t meant for the nostalgia that clouded his voice to creep in. “Point is, if this is your first one in a while, it’s gonna be rough no matter what. I’m just here to try to make it a little easier.”

Barton’s staring at him, finally lowering the knife. He steps back, sits down on the bed and sets the knife down, picks up the water bottle instead. “So what happened to them? The Omegas, I mean.”

“The one in heat got back to base and was taken out of field duty. The other one got himself shot on the third day. We didn’t have a way of getting his body out, but I bought his tags and his personals back with me.” He looks away, a move that’s only partially calculated. Losing Hutchin had been a blow for all of them, he was just a damn kid, everyone’s little brother. “If you want me to go, I’ll go, but Pierce’ll probably try to send someone else down here. How many people do you want going upstairs and whispering about how slick Hawkeye gets?”

That works where logic hasn’t, Barton’s cheeks flushing. He waves a hand dismissively, taking a quick sip of water. “If you try to fuck me I’m gonna cut your knot off and choke you to death with it.” He pauses, glancing down at the knife. “I’m keeping this.”

“Fine, fine. Any requests for dinner?”

“Chicken and rice. I’ve been craving it since I got back from New York and haven’t even had a chance to make it for myself.”

He doubts that there’s either of those here, but that’s what the laptop is for. If he makes the request, it’ll show up on the doorstep soon enough. “Drink the water, eat the salad. Throw some pants on and come out to the kitchen when you’re done.”

* * *

Barton joins him in the kitchen after the requested food has been delivered. He slides onto a bar stool on the opposite side of the island, still working on the water bottle. The knife is still close at hand, but Rumlow pretends not to see it as he scrolls through the recipe and adds spices to the pot. 

“There’s a lot of different ways to make chicken and rice, you know.”

“Whatever works.”

He gives it all a stir, puts the cover on and finally turns to face Barton at the island. Rumlow washes his hands in the sink between them, meeting the man’s gaze. “How you feelin’, then?”

Barton’s laugh is weak and dismissive. “Like garbage. Eating helped. Water’s helping.”

“Shower’ll help, too, after this. Getting a decent night’s sleep--” Barton tenses, his hand dropping to the knife, and Rumlow changes tracks smoothly. “I’ll stay on the couch.”

The tension eases as he takes another sip of water. “You do this a lot or something?”

He waves dismissively, quickly turning back to the stove. “Hell, I wouldn’t be here if Romanoff or Rogers were around. You don’t have a long list of people you trust, but Pierce figured at least start with someone who had the good sense to run if you got dangerous.”

“Yet you’re still here.”

“So he miscalculated how much good sense I have. You haven’t stabbed me yet. Here.” He turns with a spoon, holds it up to Barton’s lips until the man takes the bite. “Good?”

His eyes close, shoulders relaxing, mouth working before he swallows. When he looks at Rumlow again, there’s something almost pathetic in the unmasked joy on his face. “Amazing.”

Internally, he marks down another successful mission, over before it’s begun.

* * *

He stretches out on the couch, listening to the sound of the shower running. Rumlow hooks a hand over his head, grabs the laptop and logs in with his credentials. There’s always paperwork to be done, even for S.T.R.I.K.E., but he pushes all that aside in favor of logging on to the secure subserver, filing his mission report thus far.

Barton’s still in the preliminary stages of heat, still has most of his faculties about him. If he’s been on suppressors uninterrupted for so long, though, they have the better part of two weeks down here before it flushes out of his system. It should be more than enough time, but he files the request for heat enhancers regardless. He’ll keep them in reserve, use them to drug Barton’s food if the Omega resists the urge to beg for his knot during his heat. He has his orders, after all.

With that done he logs out, sets the laptop back on the desk and turns the TV on. There’s a football game on tonight, his plan had been to go back to his place and get a six pack and watch the Giants lose again. He can do at least that last part here.

Midway through the second quarter, Barton joins him on the couch, sits at the far end and curls his knees up. His eyes stay on the television, a small frown tugging at the corner of his mouth. It cuts to commercial and Rumlow stands and stretches, crossing to the kitchen to get himself a bottle of water. He tosses one over his shoulder, barely keeping in a smile as Barton catches it. There’s a reason he’s considered one of the best.

“So, who’s your team?”

“Giants. Gotta represent, even when they suck.” He drops onto the couch again, just a little closer to Barton than he had been. “Who do you cheer for?”

“I’ve never really been into football. Whenever I’m invited to a game party I usually end up in the kitchen, doing trick shots flicking bottle caps from everyone’s beers. Keeps people who care as little about football as me entertained, at least.”

“You’re a weird guy, Barton.” Rumlow reaches over, squeezing his shoulder briefly. “But I’ll keep it in mind and spare you the invitation to my watch party if Manning ever learns how to throw a football to someone who’s open.”

Barton shrugs, both to the comment and the touch, slowly sipping his water. “To be fair, I’m not swimming in social obligations. No one wants to hang out with the guy who got brainwashed and murdered their friends.”

“Hey, shit happens to everyone. I’m sure they’ll get over it.” He lets his hand drift down Barton’s arm, touch his elbow lightly. “Couple of guys from S.T.R.I.K.E. Bravo were in the shit with you. They quit, you fought back. Tried to set things right. That means more to most people than if you’d just rolled over and given up. Or pretended it never happened.”

“Yeah, no offense, but I’ve already gotten all this from the therapists. You don’t have to act like you’re here for anything other than a job.” Barton shrugs him off more definitively, standing up and stretching. Rumlow’s eyes dart to the slip of skin between his shirt and his pants involuntarily, and Barton smirks as he lowers his arms and hides it again. “Just an Alpha, not an asshole, huh?”

“You didn’t bring the knife out with you.”

“Don’t need a blade to stop you, Rumlow. I’m gonna get some sleep.” He disappears into the hallway, the sound of the bedroom door shutting muffled under the television. Not like it matters, there’s no lock on it.

He settles back onto the couch again, stretching his legs out and sipping his water. Drops a hand to his lap and rubs his throbbing cock through his tac pants. Already just being in the room with Barton has him reacting, and the Omega hasn’t even started his full heat yet. He better be ready to beg to get knotted soon, or Rumlow’s going to eat his own words about self control.

His eyes track to the television as the second half of the game starts, a low cuss in the back of his throat. Watching the Giants get their asses kicked sober just isn’t as fun.

* * *

Someone sends down a second laptop for him, along with a restock for the fridge. They knock once at the door, just like when they’d brought the requested food the night before, before letting themselves in. Rumlow takes the supplies with a nod, setting up the laptop on the little desk and putting away the items in the kitchen. He slips the bottle of pills sent along with the food into a cupboard, high above the fridge and behind a stack of mixing bowls, where it’s unlikely to be discovered no matter how much snooping Barton does.

And speaking of the man… Rumlow cracks open the bedroom door once everything is put away, watching him in the dim room. Curled up on the bed, bare skin shining with sweat, the smell of him heady in the small room. He moves closer carefully, glances at the table for the man’s hearing aids. There’s one there, so Rumlow clears his throat still a prudent distance back. “I’m gonna take a shower. Need anything?”

Barton groans, rolling over and kicking away the blanket. He’s shed his sweatpants in the night, as well, naked as the day he was born now. His cock is hard and leaking against his hip, his thighs are streaked with slick. There’s a stain on the bed under him, seeming to grow by the second. “Go ‘way, Rumlow.”

“I’m going, I’m going.” Still, he lingers long enough to press the inside of his wrist to Barton’s forehead, to offer some minor relief from what he must be going through. Rumlow gets his own pair of sweatpants and t-shirt from the closet, slipping over to the bathroom and submerging himself in a hot shower. He strokes a hand over his throbbing cock, trying to wash the scent of Barton’s arousal off himself, tantalizing his mind with how good it will be when he pins the Omega down and fucks him senseless. He’s going to fuck that man on every surface in this apartment twice before his heat is over.

Cleaned up and more in control, he redresses quickly and heads for the kitchen. Being barefoot and wearing sweatpants in the middle of the day is weird; even on his days off he prefers combat boots and cargo pants. Rumlow makes up a quick breakfast, loading a tray with the scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast, as well as two steaming mugs of coffee and two bottles of cold water. He bumps the bedroom door open with his hip, carries the tray over and sets it beside the bed.

Barton’s back to curled up on his side, little noises coming out of him, sounds of desperation as he squeezes his cock one-handed. Rumlow deliberately ignores that, ignores the throb of his dick in his pants, and sets about serving breakfast in bed as well as he can. It’s all so fucking… _ domestic._ He’s going to have to get used to it, though. If this all goes according to plan, he’ll be a daddy before too long.

“Barton.”

The little whine that answers him stirs heat in his stomach and he pinches the outside of his thigh through his pants until it’s sure to bruise.

“Come on, you need food.”

“_Fuck_,” he gasps out, body jolting, his hand speeding up on his dick at Rumlow’s voice.

He heaves a sigh that he doesn’t entirely feel, leaning in and setting his hand gently on Barton’s wrist. Make him want it. Make him _ beg _ for it. “It’s not gonna feel better from that, you’re just gonna rub your dick raw.” His hand moves to Barton’s, fingers curling gently over his. “Come on, let go. Sit up for me.” Low and soothing, like he’s talking to a kid. Except he’d never be this fucking hard talking to a kid.

Reluctantly, Barton releases his cock, sitting up and blinking at the food. He lets Rumlow settle on the bed next to him, leans into the man with a little sigh and presses his nose into his neck. “Y’smell good…”

“That’s definitely the hormones talking. Here.” Slowly, with oh-so-much care, he gets Barton to eat. A bite of egg, a little nibble of toast, a sip of coffee. It takes damn near forever and he can feel his stomach protesting as his own food grows cold, but eventually he gets Barton to eat enough. Rumlow sets the plate aside, reaching for his own and shoving in a mouthful of eggs and bacon, temporarily content to let the man lean into him. It’s easier when he has something to do, something to focus on besides the scent of the Omega’s heat.

He puts aside the tray of food and sighs, his mind wandering back to the kitchen and the coffee pot. Barton is nearly asleep against him, however, head resting on his chest, more and more weight pressing against him until Rumlow gives in and lies down. He wraps his arms around Barton, rubbing his back slowly. Maybe this will be even easier than he thought. Barton nuzzles into his neck, making little content noises, his hands trailing up under Rumlow’s t-shirt, over the flat planes of his stomach and chest. It’s endearing, especially when he’s more used to seeing the man as a fighter, as a competent killer with damn near perfect aim. They haven’t worked together a lot, but S.T.R.I.K.E.’s run backup on a few of Barton’s ops, and Rumlow knows what sort of violence the man is capable of unleashing,

That’s only part of what keeps his hands above Barton’s waist.

Eventually, he slips out from under Barton’s hold, strokes a hand through his sweaty hair and takes the tray back to the kitchen. He cleans up, grabs himself another cup of coffee and his laptop, and settles in to work on the couch. Those S.T.R.I.K.E. mission reports won’t write themselves, no matter how much he procrastinates.

Rollins is running ops while he’s on this assignment, so he checks the duty roster and approves upcoming vacation requests, marking down the agents who will be unavailable. His fingers tap at the keys, filling out equipment request forms--vehicles, guns, specialty tac gear. These things are supposed to be done _ before _ anything is taken off the premises, but S.T.R.I.K.E. is a rapid-deployment unit and as long as he doesn’t let them slip by more than a month or so, no one rides his ass about when his ‘requests’ are filed.

It’s sort of nice to have time to catch up on all the paperwork.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. internal system alerts him to a message and he taps on it, skimming the text from Rollins. This deep underground his phone won’t work, that must be why he’s getting a message here instead of a call.

> _ The team is deploying to Bern to assist in hunting down a terror cell. Want a souvenir? _

He makes a face at Rollins’ message, typing back quickly for the man to a) blow it out his ass and b) bring him beer. Rollins can leave it at the apartment, he has a key. He doesn’t mind missing out on a sweep-and-clear in the city, but this is also his first full day of sitting around instead of _ doing _ things. Give him a week and he’ll be pulling his hair out. His last mandatory vacation he’d ended up beating some kid black and blue in an underground MMA fight just to have a little excitement.

Rumlow is barely aware of the body that joins him on the couch, not until Barton’s head rests on his shoulder. He tenses for a moment, though there’s nothing more incriminating than some less-than-professional language in his message history with Rollins. They don’t talk about secure stuff on the public server, they’re not stupid. He lets an arm drape around Barton’s bare shoulders, glancing down and smiling to see that he’s put some pants on. “How you feelin’?”

“Dunno. Fuzzy.” He yawns, nudging the laptop until Rumlow gets the hint and sets it on the coffee table next to where his feet are propped up. Barton drops his head into his lap almost immediately, curling up on the couch and turning the TV on. “Move your feet.”

“Bossy.” He lets his feet drop to the floor, knees bending, one hand slowly carding through Barton’s hair. They flip channels slowly, eventually landing on a home renovation show. Definitely not Rumlow’s idea of good television, but it seems to perk Barton up a little.

“That’s what I want,” he murmurs as the young couple on screen choose the large house that needs a frankly obscene amount of work. “Buy a nice place out in the country, off the grid, away from work, and spend my weekends fixing it up and making it over…”

“Sounds like a pain in the ass.” Sure, if his sink is stopped up or his light bulbs burn out, he’ll fix that, but Rumlow uses his rare time off for better things than housework. Even of the hammers and saws variety.

“Nah, it’s great. You make a place really your own. Every room becomes special, has your fingerprints on it.” Barton snuggles down into his thigh, sighing. “And if you got a family, it’s theirs, too.”

His thumb brushes the back of the man’s neck, drawing a shiver from him. “Since when do people in our line of work think about things like having a family?”

“Everyone’s got retirement plans. C’mon, even you must have something.”

“Yeah, it’s called dyin’, kid.” Rumlow snorts, his hand moving back up to Barton’s hair.

Slowly, Barton rolls over, staring up at him. “So you’ve never thought about having a family? A mate and some kids running around? People that make you happy?”

“When I was young and stupid, maybe. Before I learned that people don’t make me happy. That it’s dangerous to be close to people.” He lets his hand drift over Barton’s chest, calculated, tracing almost-random patterns over his heart. “Especially in our line of work. If you’re not there to protect them…” The noise is small and choked off quickly, but it’s enough. He glances down, feigning surprise at the sheen of tears in the Omega’s eyes. “Oh, hey now, what’s this? I’m not sayin’ it’s stupid for _ you _ to want that, I’m sayin’ it’s not for me.”

“No, I know.” Barton wipes a hand against his face, turning back to the TV. “I just… You’re right. If I had a kid, and something happened to them… I couldn’t protect them… I think that’d be the death of me. I’d never be able to come back from what it would do to me.”

They go quiet as the show comes back on, Rumlow resuming stroking Barton’s hair, occasionally tracing over the back of his neck. It doesn’t have to be much, subtle is better with him. He’s no Romanoff, but he’s not dense either. Just the seed, the idea of both of them being protective of hypothetical kids… Neither wanting to risk children in such a dangerous world.

Yeah, it’s a start.

Rumlow brings his laptop to the arm of the couch, slowly fills out reports one-handed as his other hand strokes Barton’s hair and the show--apparently it’s a marathon--continues in the background.


	2. (The Kids Are All Wrong) The Story's All Off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dubious nature of the consent is touched on here. Aside from general heat dubcon, Rumlow certainly isn't acting entirely in good faith.

It’s all so horrifically domestic he can almost forget it’s a job. Watch TV with Barton, break away to make lunch. Sit next to each other on the couch afterwards, the television off and both of them on their laptops. He supposes that if it were a real relationship, they’d be talking on occasion, but then again… There’s enough fuzzy childhood memories of his own parents sitting in sullen silence in the living room after his father got home from work but before he got drunk enough to start yelling that this feels normal. At least the quiet is from mutual focus on other things.

Whatever Barton’s working on seems to have him frustrated, his breath coming out in little huffs now and then, his teeth working his lower lip over between bouts of rapid-fire typing. Rumlow finishes clearing his backlog of equipment requests and starts in on field injury reports, another thing he’s not supposed to let slip so far away from the date of incident. Medical’s going to have to deal with the fact that Morrison’s been self-medicating a broken ankle because they refuse to treat him without a field incident report.

Another huff from the man next to him and Rumlow sighs, putting away his laptop. “Okay. What the hell are you working on that’s getting you so riled up?”

Barton glances over, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. Wordlessly, he turns the laptop to Rumlow. It’s a bunch of complicated graphical nonsense that he realizes, after a moment, is some sort of game. “Nat and I have a match going in this RTS game and she’s kicking my ass. How’re your tactics?”

“I don’t even know what the fuck I’m looking at.” He passes the laptop back, standing up and stretching. “I thought she was on assignment with Rogers?”

“She is. They’re locked down in a safehouse right now so we’re having a match to pass the time. I’m not even sure what country she’s in.” He laughs a little, shaking his head. “Too bad she’s not the one hanging out with me, helping me ride this bullshit out.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re stuck with me. Trust me, this isn’t my idea of down time, either.” Rumlow rounds the island into the kitchen, pawing through the fridge and pulling out ingredients. “Steak and potatoes tonight.” He’s not much of a cook, but he can make a decent steak and it takes a true incompetent to fuck up mashed potatoes.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Rumlow, just…” Barton sets his laptop aside, bare feet nearly silent as he enters the kitchen. “Like you said, the list of people I trust is short. You’re fine.”

“I’ll make sure they put that on my performance review at the end of the year. ‘Brock Rumlow, he’s fine.’ Hey, I don’t care that I’m not your top pick. I’d be more worried if I _ was._”

Arms wrap around him from behind, hands sliding under his t-shirt once more. Barton presses his face between Rumlow’s shoulder blades, his breath warm on the man’s back. “Sorry.”

“Your hormones are taking over your brain again, kid. Go take a shower, I’ll have dinner ready when you’re done.” He makes no move to disengage the arms around him, to push Barton into following the orders. His hand settles over the Omega’s, fingertips tracing his knuckles lightly. “I could have turned down this assignment if I didn’t wanna be here for you. I’m doing this for you, Barton, not for S.H.I.E.L.D.” Just caring enough to leave him wanting more. It works like a damn charm, Barton’s arms tightening around him for a moment before he lets go, disappears into the apartment bathroom. Rumlow grins as he gets to seasoning the steaks, too many teeth showing, his eyes cold.

A few kind words, a few gentle touches, and the damn Omega is wrapped around his finger. Honestly, they should give him honeypot assignments more often. Too bad most of their targets are old fucks who like’em too young.

They eat at the kitchen island, the weight of silence starting to grow between them. He knows he has to be careful, play this out right, or Barton’s going to catch on to the scheme and put a knife through his neck. The morning had been good, lying together in bed, on the couch. The physical he’s got locked in, but Barton’s smart no matter what hormones are clouding his brain, he’s not going to be emotionally vulnerable in the same way.

Not without a decent push.

Rumlow glances at the ‘window,’ letting out a little hiss of air. “Check it out.” The live feed is going static every now and then, rocked by a hell of a thunderstorm. This deep underground they can’t feel or hear it, but judging by how harsh the lightning strikes are to the lens, it’s right on top of them. “Suddenly kinda glad I’m down here, I’d hate to be stuck out in traffic during that shit.”

Barton looks over, raising an eyebrow. “Storms like that used to freak me out. Even if I took my hearing aids out, I’d still be able to feel the ground shaking with the thunder. Always made me think someone was sneaking up behind me.” He inches just a bit closer to Rumlow, frowning.

"Worst part about storms like this, Barton, is you never remember if you shut your windows or not."

They both laugh a little, the sound tapering off as the lights flicker. Barton glances to the screen again, his teeth working his lower lip once more. “You can call me Clint, you know.”

“Yeah? Well, you can call me Brock, I guess.” He sets his hand on the back of Barton’s neck, squeezes until the tension leaks out of him. “Wanna move into the room that doesn’t have a livestream of the storm with no off button?”

The flash of gratitude in his eyes is better than a shot of whiskey. Barton nods quickly, gathering up the dishes and dumping them into the sink. Rumlow shuts the lights off on the way, the two of them dropping into the bed. Almost immediately, Barton curls up against him, pressing his face into Rumlow’s chest.

Heightened emotional responses are part of it. It’s not just about sexual arousal, it’s about everything that makes an Omega ready to take a knot, be knocked up, start a family. The physical, the mental, the emotional. Rumlow wraps his arms around the Omega, rubbing his back slowly. Even through their pants, he can feel Barton’s cock hard against his thigh, can smell the slick that’s all but pouring out of him. He kisses the top of his head gently, letting out a little hum.

“You’re good. I got you. Won’t let nothin’ hurt you, Clint.”

Barton snorts against his chest. “Yeah, yeah, the big, strong Alpha protecting his scared Omega, I’ve heard that one before.” Still, he doesn’t move away, doesn’t try to make Rumlow move.

He also doesn’t notice the possession of himself that he just handed to the Alpha. Rumlow makes a mental note, pressing another kiss to Barton’s soft hair and going quiet.

* * *

Day three has him waking up under Barton, the Omega nuzzling into his chest in his sleep. Rumlow makes an assessment with as little movement as possible, first himself and then Barton.

Himself: Shirtless, pants on, warm arms snaked around his torso, a soft face pressed into his collarbone and gentle lips tracing the skin there. Hard as a fucking diamond in his pants.

Barton: Completely naked, sound asleep, oblivious to who he’s cuddled up with and how turned on the proximity has them. Flush with heat, also hard, and the faintest brush of his hand against the man’s thigh reveals that he’s damn near dripping.

To be young again, Rumlow thinks with a mental snort, working to gently extract himself without waking Barton up. His body is twitching for movement, for fresh air and action. He can sneak out, go for a run, come back in and let that overwhelmingly _ Alpha _ post workout smell wake up his Omega. Tease him with it, with the relief that comes from being claimed, and then disappear for a shower under the pretense of this just being a job.

It’s day three, maybe Barton will join him in the shower.

He pulls on shorts and a t-shirt, slips out of the room and back to the elevators. His security clearance is still holding, so apparently Barton hasn’t mentioned anything to Romanoff about his presence. Even more promising than the night they just spent together.

There’s time to think about that later, however. He jogs along the sidewalk towards the mall, settling onto the path with the other early morning runners. Marathon trainers, veterans, a handful of people he recognizes from S.H.I.E.L.D. First thing in the morning is the best time for a run, everyone knows that, and the paths are crowded with people setting their paces. He ducks between them, falls into step almost without thought next to a man in shorts and an Air Force sweatshirt. Air Force is out here most mornings he is, usually starts strong and fades in the middle before coming back to his pace. Rumlow likes running alongside him, likes the air of competition that someone on his pace can provide.

They both drop to a park bench as they finish, as the sun starts to burn off the morning mists in earnest. The crowds are changing, tourists filtering in, walking in the middle of the running paths in large groups that need to be dodged around. That’s the other reason to get an early start, at least in a city like this. Avoid the idiots.

“Missed you yesterday. Out on a job?” Air Force asks, waving as a water vendor walks by. They each buy a bottle, cracking them open and drinking quickly.

“Something like that.” He stretches his legs out in front of him, leaning forward on the bench and grasping the toes of his shoes.

“Yeah, yeah, top secret. Normally if you miss one day, you miss a bunch, so it musta been an easy job.”

“Who said it’s done? Maybe I’m running covert ops right here in this city.”

Air Force snorts, shoving his shoulder when he sits back up. “Secretly a spy, right? Man, shut the hell up.”

“Wouldn’t be much of a spy if a flyboy could figure it out.” He grins, stretching his arms over his head before standing. “Well, better get back to it. See ya next time.” Without waiting for an answer, Rumlow jogs off. He doesn’t usually like people, but Air Force (one of these days he’ll ask the man his name, but that seems like it’s taking things too far) is okay. Easy to get along with.

He’s got someone easier waiting for him back at headquarters, though.

Rumlow steps into the empty elevator from the lobby, tapping his access card against the panel. There’s a moment of pause, a moment he’s sure that the little red light will stay red, before it flashes green. “Residential Three.”

_ “Confirmed.” _

The smooth glide down into the bowels of the Triskelion gives him time to think, time to plan. He could have gone up, gone to his own office and filed a mission update there, but… There’s something about the thrill of doing all this right under Barton’s nose that he prefers. The sort of reckless behavior that had nearly gotten him killed in the Army, but had seen him swiftly promoted in S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra. They liked risk-takers, not just soldiers who fell in line.

Plus, if he’s being brutally honest with himself, he’s a little excited to see how Barton will react. It’s hot out and he definitely worked up a sweat out there, pushing himself harder than necessary on the jog back.

Rumlow swipes through the security checkpoints, holding his breath at each one before it clears him. There’s still a chance, however small, that someone’s caught on to his game and put an end to it. Pierce can override that, but it’s still a pain in the ass.

Letting himself back into the apartment, the scent of Barton’s heat is like a physical force. He’d thought it was powerful two days ago, but now it’s something overwhelming, momentarily clouding out all his other senses. He closes his eyes, leans back on the door and listens to the blood rush in his ears. Slowly, Rumlow adjusts to the scent, gets his focus back.

He hears it, then, little muffled whines and whimpers from the bedroom. His feet guide him, running shoes slipping off and socks whisper-quiet on the carpet as he swings the bedroom door open.

There’s Barton, a sight to behold. His hips are hiked up, legs spread, face buried in the pillow Rumlow slept on the night before. One hand is wrapped around his cock, stroking what must by now be painfully raw flesh with abandon. His other hand is wrenched around behind him, two fingers thrusting shallowly into his hole. He’s shiny with slick, from his ass all the way down to his knees, his back bowed into a delicious curve as he thrusts back onto his fingers.

Rumlow doesn’t think, he just _ does_. One minute he’s in the doorway, rock hard in his pants as he takes it in, and the next time he blinks he’s sitting on the bed with Barton, a hand carding through his hair, gently tugging his head up. The whimpers and whines aren’t muffled anymore, spill from his lips as pleas of desperation.

He scoots himself under the Omega, spreads Barton’s thighs to either side of his hips and lets his chest muffle those cries. One hand keeps carding through sweaty hair, the other snaking down their torsos until he can wrap his fingers around Barton’s throbbing cock. “Tell me no.”

“_Please_.” His voice hitches and he gasps, rocking between his own fingers and Rumlow’s hand.

“Tell me no and I stop.”

Another whine answers him and he nods, tightens his grip in Barton’s hair to guide his face up, press their mouths together. Rumlow strokes him gently, barely caresses the over-sensitive flesh of Barton’s cock.

“Keep fingering yourself,” he instructs against the Omega’s lips, glancing over his shoulder and watching his hand work. He offers a single firmer stroke as reward, before running a fingertip lightly down the length of Barton’s erection, over his balls and back into his slick. He doesn’t enter him, but he gets his hand wet with the arousal, his already warm skin nearly burning at the contact. He takes his time coming back, fondles Barton’s balls just to hear him whine with pleasure, just to demonstrate to whatever hazy awareness he has how much he needs this. When his hand wraps around Barton’s dick again, the Omega almost starts crying, burying his face in Rumlow’s shoulder and rocking into the loose grasp.

“Please, please, please…” He’s muttering it over and over, tattooing the words into Rumlow’s skin with teeth and tongue, and he surrenders to the demand, strokes him firmly.

It doesn’t take much for Barton to lose it, to sob into his skin with pleasure and splash hot jizz across both their stomachs. Rumlow guides him down slowly, eases Barton onto his back and follows on top of him. The kiss he presses to the man’s lips is slow, gentle, his clean hand cupping Barton’s cheek and holding him steady.

It doesn’t take as long as he’d think for the haze to wear off, for his eyes to clear, pupils no longer blown wide so that his iris is a bare ring around the black. He squirms and whines under Rumlow’s weight, freezing as his shifting hips brush the Alpha’s hard cock.

“I thought you weren’t here to fuck me.” There’s dry humor in his voice, like he wasn’t literally begging for it minutes ago, and his eyebrows raise up. “Ugh, you’re all sweaty. You smell like a locker room.”

“We could both use a shower.” And some clean sheets on the bed. And he feels pretty sorry for the laundry service, given the state of his t-shirt. “Together?”

Barton hums, glancing down at where their hips are discretely canted away from each other again. “Are you expecting reciprocation?”

“No. And if you’re offering, I’m turning you down.” He leans in, nips Barton’s lower lip gently. “This is about helping you through something shitty, not getting my dick wet. A handjob is hardly fucking and you were well on your way to making yourself bleed.”

It takes a bit longer, but they make their way to the bathroom. Barton slips into the warm shower with a content sigh, his shoulders dropping as he stands under the spray. Rumlow strips out of his soiled running clothes, joining him in the stall--just barely big enough for two--and reaching for the soap. He cleans himself quickly, blinking away steam and frowning.

“You gotta clean up, kid.”

“Don’wanna.” Barton moves a step closer in the already cramped space, pressing his forehead to Rumlow’s shoulder. “You do it.”

Protest dies on his lips as brown eyes turn up to look at him, Barton’s lower lip jutting out slightly. Hormones, he reminds himself, soaping up his hands and slowly running them up and down Barton’s body. First the endorphin rush of an orgasm, then the crash. He washes the other man thoroughly, letting the spray from the shower head rinse him off slowly.

The bathroom is entirely steamed up by the time they pull themselves out of the spray, and Rumlow surrenders to the fact that he’s going to have to take care of _ everything _ for Barton until all his faculties come back online. He towels the Omega off, wrapping him in the fluffy terry cloth before drying himself. The rush of cooler air as he opens the bathroom door has him reacting automatically, pulling Barton against himself to protect him from the chill.

“Not much point in getting you dressed, if this goes like it usually does.” He does remember seeing a bathrobe in the linen closet, however, and snags that out to wrap Barton in. Rumlow guides the other man to the bedroom, decides against setting him on the bed with a glance. He’ll have to change those sheets. “Wait right here.”

Barton makes a little noise of agreement, his eyes barely open. He wraps his arms around himself in the robe and Rumlow steps into the closet, digging until he finds something a bit more his speed than sweatpants. He pulls on the cargo pants and t-shirt, glancing at himself in the mirror. Almost looks like just another day at the office.

“You vain motherfucker,” he murmurs to his reflection, turning to see if there’s a belt anywhere in the closet. He doesn’t spot the movement out of the corner of his eye, doesn’t hear footsteps, and nearly breaks Barton’s nose when the man’s fingers curl into his belt loops. “What the _ fuck_.”

“Missed you.” The explanation is muffled, lips moving against his back through his shirt. Barton keeps his fingers in Rumlow’s belt loops, his weight settling more firmly against him.

“I walked like ten steps away.” He reaches back, tugs the Omega around and kisses his forehead lightly. “Come on, you need to eat something and drink some water.”

He’s starting to doubt that this is just an endorphin crash. Rumlow wracks his brain as he throws together a quick breakfast for them, turning the coffee pot on and letting that smell overwhelm the smell of sex that’s been permeating the air. Omegas in heat are more susceptible to pregnancy, of course. Those with mates usually use the time to start or expand families. Those without can take suppressors to live normal lives, or hire services that often employ Betas or neutered Alphas to fuck them through it. Emotional attachment isn’t a necessity but obviously comes with the territory--he’s heard of plenty of people in S.H.I.E.L.D. who took the bond during a heat fuck. The few members of S.T.R.I.K.E. that are bonded all have that story.

Except the difference is, they’d been with their partners for a long time. None of them had ever worked for a heat assistance service and the choice to bond, to go off suppressors, to start families… Those choices didn’t come lightly. That was three very important discussions that he’d never had before--

Rumlow stops with his spoon halfway to his mouth, his eyes locked on the wall in front of him, unseeing.

Conversations he hadn’t had until Barton.

Having a family, a mate, bonding and… Rumlow forces himself to keep eating, to not chase this train of thought. It’s a _ job_, all he has to do is convince Barton to fuck him, knock him up, and then convince the Omega that this was all for the best. That he and their child--their _ baby_\--are safest doing what Rumlow says. He’s the Alpha, after all, and he knows best.

That particular line of reasoning he doubts Barton will buy, even if Pierce seems to think it will work. But if he can convince Barton that he’s really looking out for their little family’s best interests…

Well, Clint Barton is no Captain America. He knows that sometimes hands need to get dirty for the world to get clean. Rumlow’s read his mission reports.

He nearly jumps out of his skin as weight leans into him, glancing over as Barton leans as far over on his bar stool as he can without falling. “Hey, Brock…”

God, his name on those lips _ does _ things to him that it shouldn’t. “Yeah?”

“Can we go sit on the couch? Like yesterday? There’s a _ Rustic Rehabbers _ marathon on today.”

Rumlow laughs, kissing the top of Barton’s head lightly and pushing his empty bowl towards the sink. “Just let me grab some coffee and then yeah. We can sit on the couch like yesterday and I can get work done while you watch your weird home makeover shows.”


	3. Come On, Come On (And Let Me In)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some allusions to rape in this, specifically with the use of drugs to force sexual situations. This is touched on after the second line break and visited again in more detail after the third.
> 
> There's also a sex scene with the same dubcon warning as the previous chapter. Clint's consent isn't fully informed, even if it is enthusiastic.

He logs in to the secure subserver while Barton’s sleeping, hand petting lightly through the Omega’s hair. Rumlow files his mission update quickly, notes down that Barton seems to trust him, that he’s making progress on the sexual front. He hasn’t even touched the enhancers yet.

His eyes skim the files, updates from different branches on the plans growing just under S.H.I.E.L.D.’s nose. Insight is coming along nicely, the timeline advanced with the help of none other than Tony Stark. He frowns, tabbing over to the list of targets, scrolling to the B’s.

There he is, outlined as a priority elimination. _ Barton, Clinton Francis - Extremely Dangerous. _ If he’s successful, that will change. That better change.

He can flip an Avenger. He can make the man sleeping on his lap see the light. See the true potential of a world of order, a world under Hydra’s control. It’s not going to be easy, but he wouldn’t be where he was if he only did easy jobs.

Of all of them, though, it’s probably the easiest. Everything S.H.I.E.L.D. has on Barton, Hydra has. He’s a loner, a killer, only leashed in by the structure of S.H.I.E.L.D. He’s a gun that they’ve been pointing for nearly a decade. Maybe it’s time for someone to finally pull the trigger.

Barton isn’t the mindless killing machine that some of Hydra’s other assets are but he has potential. He has the skills to be useful, the mindset to understand that sometimes the old world has to burn so a glorious new one can rise from its ashes. He can become part of Hydra’s order.

Rumlow logs out of the server and sets his laptop aside, glancing down. Barton’s still sound asleep, a little drool leaking from his mouth and darkening the leg of his cargo shorts. He lets a smile tug at the corners of his mouth, stroking a hand down the man’s back. Coulson had been aiming the gun last, Barton has to be feeling lost without a handler. He’s willing to offer some much-needed guidance. He’s good with weapons, after all.

* * *

He moves on to the next stage on day four.

Barton’s prowling around the apartment after breakfast, looking like a caged animal. He picks up his laptop, puts it down, picks it up again. Sits on the couch, moves to the kitchen island, abandons the laptop there, goes into the bedroom, comes out with the knife spinning slowly in his hand. Rumlow watches him from the desk chair, his fingers tapping lightly on his thigh.

“You’re givin’ me anxiety, Clint, all that pacing. You need something?”

Eyes touch on him briefly from across the room, before Barton’s turning to rifle through the fridge. “How often do you train?”

“I go for a run almost every morning, put in an hour or so at the gym every evening, unless I’m on a job. If something big seems like it’s coming up, I’ll double that, hit the gym before and after work, run first thing in the morning and before I call it quits for the day. Granted, hard to know when something big is coming up in the world of rapid deployment.”

“So you’re cooped up here for two weeks with me, isn’t it bothering you to _ not _ do that?”

Rumlow smiles, spreading his arms slightly. “Are you kidding? S.H.I.E.L.D. basically told me to take a vacation. I went for a run yesterday morning, but I’m trying to do that whole relaxing thing they say is crucial to not having a heart attack before you’re sixty.”

Barton crosses the room with a bottle of water, dropping the knife onto the coffee table as he sits down. “You’re full of shit. You wouldn’t work so hard if you didn’t like it.”

He sits forward slightly, shrugging. “Being bonded to your job is a lot less messy than being bonded to another person. And I’m good at my job, at bringing order to the chaos in the world. I’m shit at handling other people if I can’t just bark orders at them.”

“Your team must really go all-out for your Boss Appreciation Day present.” He raises an eyebrow, one corner of his mouth curling up.

“Last year they got me a gift card to Applebee's. Five dollars. It was touching.” Rumlow laughs, reaching over and patting Barton’s knee. “You know, there’s a gym on Residential Four. I can put in a request for us to access it.”

His eyebrows draw together, looking Rumlow up and down quickly. “How do you know that? I didn’t even know S.H.I.E.L.D. had residential suites like this until they locked me in here.”

Quick lies are much easier than long truths and like hell he’s telling Barton that he’s been studying maps of the Triskelion while the man’s been sleeping in his lap. “I got laid up with an injury about eight months ago, chute didn’t deploy properly on a drop and I landed hard, tore my ACL. Can’t even tell anymore thanks to modern medicine, but they had me locked up down here for a while, making sure I didn’t push myself too hard to recover. Got to go to the gym for physical therapy a couple of times a week.” He shrugs, waving dismissively. “I can put in the request, at least. Lock it down, so it’s just you and me in there, give us a couple of hours to shake it out. Change the scenery.” His hand moves from Barton’s knee, slides just a little way up his thigh until fingers on his still it. Rumlow looks up, meeting the Omega’s smile.

“Sounds good.”

* * *

There’s not much to the gym; a treadmill, a stationary bike, a couple of benches with free weights. There’s a decent chunk of open mat space, and Rumlow gravitates towards it, shadowboxing and moving around the space. He glances at the line of mirrors, spotting Barton still by the door and dropping his arms. “What’s up?”

“Somehow, I expected this to still have an archery kit.” He laughs, flushing, moving to the stationary bike before seeming to reconsider, heading for the treadmill instead. “I don’t think I’m supposed to push myself too hard, but if I close my eyes, I can _ pretend _ like I’m actually doing something while on the treadmill.”

Rumlow nods, glancing around the room. They don’t have most of the equipment he uses in his usual, but they have the mats. He can do quite a bit with a mat and his own muscles. “Just give a shout when you’re done and we can head back.”

Working out is a good time to think, to let his body take over and his mind go where it wants. The mission, of course, is top priority. Barton had woken up this morning feeling better than the day before, curled around him but not so desperate with heat that he’d needed anything more than a shower to get going. The restlessness had all been related to inactivity, cured by this little outing. They’ll want to shower and eat when they get back, of course, and it won’t hurt him to start slipping enhancers into some of Barton’s meals. He can give the Omega first shower, dose his dinner while he’s cleaning up, and if they’re as good as R&D claims, the enhancers will be working their magic by the time he washes up. If not then by the time they’re ready to go to sleep. And if it’s not enough for Barton to be begging for his knot, he can always dose him again.

“Hey,” Barton speaks up, his feet planted to either side of the treadmill’s moving belt, arms leaning on the control panel. “Do you do a lot of hand to hand stuff?”

“In S.T.R.I.K.E.? Not so much. But I do it for fun.”

He shuts the treadmill down, hopping off and stretching his arms over his head. “You wanna spar? Couple of easy rounds, no fancy stuff.”

Rumlow grins, falling back into an inviting stance easily. “You any good at it? Everything on your record says you’re much more comfortable at least a hundred yards away.”

“Yeah, well, the bad guys don’t always let me be comfortable. I can probably take you, though.” He moves closer, stretching out his legs and taking up a mirroring stance.

“No face shots, we don’t have mouth guards and I’d rather not explain to Fury why I knocked out one of his Avengers’ teeth.”

Barton laughs, his fists curling. “Fury would understand. It’s Tasha you’d have to watch out for.”

He’s decent, Rumlow will accept that. Uses his agility to his advantage where strength won’t cut it, sends sharp elbows into ribs whenever the Alpha gets him in a decent grapple. Every hold he gets on Barton he has to fight for, and the one time he does sweep the Omega’s feet out from under him, Rumlow finds himself dragged down too. They grapple on the mat, legs twining together, Barton’s hips lifting into his to try to throw him off. Usually this is the time he’d go for a punch or two to the head to try to subdue his opponent, but without mouth guards he’s not risking breaking teeth or his knuckles. Rumlow wraps a hand around Barton’s throat instead, wincing slightly as a sharp elbow drives into his shoulder.

He squeezes just a bit, warning to tap out and surrender, glances up to see panic-widened brown eyes. Barton’s hand slaps the side of the mat twice and Rumlow lets go, pushing back as far as he can with their legs still locked together.

“You good?”

“Didn’t realize choking someone out was a legal move.”

“Usually you tighten your arm around a headlock, not a hand on the throat. This position, I’d have punched you in the face if we had guards in.” He reaches up carefully, lets his thumb stroke over Barton’s throat. “Are you good?”

He’s breathing fast and shallow, body lightly sheened with sweat, but he bats Rumlow’s hand away. “I’m fine. Let’s reset, go again. I’m gonna put you on the ground.”

That makes him laugh, disengaging completely, standing up and wiping his brow quickly. “Yeah? Good luck with that, kid.”

For what it’s worth, he _ tries_. He gets close a couple of times, manages to catch Rumlow in a grapple, but getting him to do more than bend his knees seems impossible. Rumlow turns into one of the holds, shoves Barton down on his stomach and settles on top of him, thighs spread to either side of his hips, legs locking down the Omega’s. He gets an arm around his throat, pulling his head back slightly and leaning forward to whisper in his ear.

“They call this the triangle. A little pressure and you’ll go to sleep in about fifteen seconds. So right now, you’re pretty fucked.” He grinds down slightly, demonstrating his control over their position. “How do you get me off?”

Barton goes still for a moment, considering, before he draws his knees up under his thighs. Rumlow grins, tightening his hold briefly. “Four… five…” A powerful upward thrust of his hips jostles him loose, both of them rolling over so Barton is on top of him. He lifts his hips on instinct, grinding into the Omega, his arm still tight around his throat. “You’ve still got your back to me, fix that.”

“Fuck…” One arm reaches up, gets into the triangle and shoves at his elbow. Rumlow’s hand comes away, his breath whooshing out of him as Barton’s elbow goes into his ribs. He can’t maintain his hold, dazed just long enough for the Omega to pull away, get to his feet and turn back to face him.

Rumlow waves a hand quickly. “Not bad, but in a real fight, don’t let up. Don’t get all the way to your feet, just turn around and get back on top of me. Take control of it.”

“Like this?” Barton lands on him, locks their legs together and pins one of his arms down. He holds his other hand up in a fist, bringing it down and lightly tapping Rumlow on the nose.

“Yeah, more or less. You’re not too bad at this, Clint.”

“Could be better.” Their faces are close, their bodies pressed tight together, both of them breathing hard and sweating. 

Rumlow reaches up, strokes a hand through Barton’s sweat-slicked hair slowly, lingering at the back of his neck. “Try again when you’re at a hundred percent, yeah?”

“You that eager to get your ass handed to you?”

He snorts, rolling over easily, pinning the other man below him. “Listen, the list of Avengers whose asses I could maybe kick is really short. I wanna find out if you’re actually on it or if it’s just Stark.”

“It’s just Stark.”

“Not what it looks like from up here.” He takes the knee to his thigh with a good natured _ oof_, letting his leg slip in between Barton’s thighs with the movement, press up against his groin. “Had enough for one day?”

Barton lets out a low whine, hips rocking slightly, seeking the pressure he’s just barely providing. The mingled scent of them is overpowering, both of them having worked up a sweat. Alpha and Omega lingering together into something new, something dark and tempting. Rumlow leans forward and presses his face into the joint of Barton’s neck and shoulder, inhaling slowly.

“T… too much,” Barton rasps out, scrambling against him, disengaging and pulling away. He scoots back until his back hits the wall, breathing more rapidly than their match calls for. “Fuck, you smell good.” He scrubs a hand against his face, groaning. “We should get out of here before they have to hose this place down.”

Rumlow stands, approaches slowly and offers a hand. He hauls the Omega to his feet, one arm wrapping around his waist. “The change of scenery was nice, though.”

“Yeah…” Barton looks over his shoulder, biting his lip as they leave. “Was this a one time thing or…?”

“Say the word and we can come back, no problems.”

They just barely make it in the door before Barton’s losing it, his face flushed, his eyes glassy. He pins Rumlow against the surface as the locks engage, mouth eager on his. “Can you…” he murmurs, breathless between kisses, “do like yesterday?”

“I can.” His hands are already on Barton’s waist, sliding lower, easing his shorts down. He wraps one hand around the Omega’s straining cock, the other cupping the curve of his ass. “Do you want me to use my fingers, too?”

“Please…” Barton’s hands trail down his chest, slip into his pants and stroke over his hardening cock. “I’ll do it for you, too, that’s okay, right?”

Rumlow’s head drops back to the door with a thud, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. “I…” He bites his lip, forces himself to breathe slowly and at least look like he’s resisting the idea. “I won’t stop you if you want to, but you’re gonna have to stop me if I do more than you want, Clint.”

“This is good. Just like this.” Barton leans up on his toes, presses into him with another kiss. “Look at me, Brock. This is good.”

Maybe he doesn’t need to drug him at all. Rumlow strokes him slowly, his own body moving in tandem with Barton’s, two fingers pressing into the Omega’s slick hole and beginning to pump in and out. Somehow, he walks them across the room, gets himself down onto the couch with Barton on his lap. He tilts his head up as his hair is pulled, catches the little cries of pleasure spilling from the other man’s lips. Just the thought of fucking into his Omega, claiming him and filling him, has his knot swelling in a way it never does when he jerks himself off. He presses a third finger in, his hand moving faster on Barton’s cock to compensate for the increased stretch.

“Oh, fuck…” Barton arches his back, his eyes rolling back into his head as he spills. He falls into Rumlow’s chest, whimpers as fingers slowly draw out of him. Rumlow closes his eyes, resigns himself to jerking off in the shower. Again. There’s no way Barton’s going to finish him now that he’s done, he’ll be too out of it--

The weight on his lap drops down, his knees pushed apart as Barton settles onto the floor between his legs. The Omega leans in, breathing him in slowly, the tickle of his exhale making Rumlow’s cock twitch. He glances up, almost coy, before leaning in and taking the Alpha into his mouth.

“Oh, god...” Rumlow groans, fingers curling into Barton’s hair, gently directing him. The hot tongue that licks up the length of his cock makes his vision white out for a second, and when lips press delicate kisses to the swell of his knot he nearly loses it.

Barton doesn’t take him deep, but he works his tongue thoroughly, hand coming up to gently squeeze his knot, guide him just a little deeper. He bobs his head shallowly, tonguing in just the right place that has Rumlow’s legs shaking.

“Fuck--” He manages to get the warning out through gritted teeth a moment before he’s spilling, reaching down and closing his hand over Barton’s on his knot, squeezing tight. He’s not going to shove into the Omega’s mouth, the squeeze of a hand against him will have to do.

When he comes back to reality, Barton is on his lap again, peppering kisses against his throat and humming softly. He looks up, doe-eyed, purposely letting his tongue run slowly over his upper lip. “You taste as good as you smell.”

He tries as hard as he can to tell himself that the warm curl in his stomach is just post-orgasm endorphins. That Barton’s smile has nothing to do with it. That the Omega--_his _ Omega--on his lap is just a mission.

He almost believes himself.

* * *

Maybe he’s just getting soft in his old age.

Watching TV with Barton’s head in his lap--those damn home renovation shows he likes so much--Rumlow tries to imagine if it was someone else on S.T.R.I.K.E. in his position, what they would do.

(He ignores the pang of anger at the idea of someone else with _ his _ Omega. He ignores it.)

He can’t imagine any of the other guys on S.T.R.I.K.E. doing anything more complicated than drugging Barton until he doesn’t know which way is up and is so desperate for a knot he’ll do whatever he’s told. Rollins or Burke or Tolvey would hold him down and fuck him until he was crying from it, knot him again and again; as many times as it took to ensure that he was knocked up.

Would they bond him?

(His stomach lurches at the thought; Omega or not, Barton doesn’t _ belong _ to anyone. Not even him.)

It would make him easier to control. Put a legal precedent in place for claiming the kid. Give him a strong tie to Hydra.

Though, it’d put them at risk, too. The bond goes both ways, every pull towards the Alpha is matched by a push towards the Omega. Rollins would take the risk and succeed… The others, it’s a more split decision. He’s sure some of them would accidentally bond in a momentary sexual high. Others wouldn’t want to risk losing their position in Hydra’s upcoming new world order, not over someone who was just as likely to end up dead when the world changed.

His thumb trails along the back of Barton’s neck, skimming over his bonding gland. It’s a little swollen, a little reddened, probably a side effect of a heat without a mate. Heat isn’t just about getting fucked, after all. Omegas are supposed to ride it out with their mate, their bonded partner. Not some stranger from a service.

“Mm… hey…” Barton rolls over in his lap, blinks up at him with a lazy smile. His eyebrows draw together slightly, hand reaching up, cupping the side of Rumlow’s face. “Quit frownin’.”

“Didn’t realize I was.”

“You look all serious. If this is about earlier, relax. I don’t regret it. Any of it.” His hand slides to the back of Rumlow’s neck, threading into his hair and pulling him down. Barton leans up enough to meet him halfway, kissing him gently. “You’re a pretty good guy, Brock. Even if you talk about yourself like you’re a piece of shit.”

“I’m mostly a piece of shit.” He lets his lips be taken with another kiss, forcing down the mental image of someone else on S.T.R.I.K.E. in his place. Holding Barton down and fucking him senseless, not even thinking about kissing him, or helping him shower, or bringing him a bottle of water. Yeah, he’s mostly a piece of shit. 

Mostly.

“Well, that doesn’t change the fact that you’re here. And if I have to deal with this shit again, you’re definitely on my short list of people that I wouldn’t mind keeping me company.” 

He laughs, gently pushing Barton back onto his lap. “That’s your hormones talking, Clint.”

“How come it’s always my hormones, huh?” His hand moves to Rumlow’s knee, squeezing slowly. “You must be having something happen to you, too. You don’t look at me like I’m some mission to be dealt with now.”

His stomach drops for a second, the humor drying up. Forcing himself to breathe slowly, he licks his lips. “Did I ever look at you like that?”

“First couple days. You were assessing. Deciding if I was too much of a pain in the ass to deal with. S’one thing to be stuck, like when you were in the Army. It’s a whole different thing to be somewhere by choice.” His thumb rubs the inside of Rumlow’s knee, working in slow circles. “I mean, sometimes you still look like that, like you’re deciding something about me more on a clinical level. Saw that look on your face just now, before I rolled over and distracted you. But a lot of the time, you look at me like…” He huffs out a breath, wiggling around on the couch and pulling his knees up to his chest. “Like you’re someone that gives a damn about me.”

Rumlow stays still and quiet, his hand resting lightly on Barton’s head. He weighs his options, hoping his face isn’t giving too much away, that his silence doesn’t drag too long. “I came down here to help you through this because it was what I was ordered to do. But like I said on day one… I didn't come down here for _that_. It’s instinct to want to take care of an Omega for me. I’m just smart enough to know that you’re capable of taking care of yourself. If I seemed… distant, I was just trying to respect your boundaries. Not so much wrong with that, right?”

“So what are you doing now?”

_ Evaluating my strategy_, he doesn’t say. Instead he shrugs, one corner of his mouth pulling up into a half-hearted smile. “Fuck if I know. But for what it’s worth, I _ do _ give a damn about you. You’re a pretty decent guy, for an Avenger whose ass I can kick.”

Barton snorts, punching him lightly on the leg. “I’m gonna make you eat mat for that, just to prove my point.”

Rumlow grins easier, giving his hair a retaliatory tug. “Looking forward to it, _ Hawkeye_.”

He can picture any of the guys on his squad pinning Barton down and fucking him into whining, crying submission, just as easily as he can picture himself doing that. He can’t picture a single one of them sitting on the couch with him, though, petting his hair and laughing and watching bad television.


	4. (You Look So Pretty But) You're Gone So Soon

They fall into an easy routine as the first week ends. If Rumlow wakes up before Barton, he’ll go out for a jog and usually come back to the man waiting for him in bed, flushed and panting. If they wake up together, they’ll shower, have breakfast, and head to the gym. By the time they return Barton is usually, once again, flushed and needy for him.

Not that Rumlow particularly minds jerking Barton off, pulling him close and swallowing those needy little noises with eager kisses, feeling a hand other than his own or a mouth he didn’t pay for on himself. Barton’s hands are so different than his, calluses in places that a gun would never put them. 

It’s hormones, or pheromones, or some other biological thing. He leaves Barton alone, the man goes wild from unchecked, instinctual longing. He comes back, sweaty after a run, the Alpha smell of him oozing from every pore, it drives the Omega completely over the edge. They work out together, bodies close, scents mingling, and they’re both hot for it before too long. He won’t pretend to really grasp the science, but he _ can’t _ pretend like he’s not craving it just as much as Barton. Being with the man has brought him all the way back to being a horny teenager, his knot swelling at the slightest provocation.

Except there’s more to it than just sex. Sure, that’s become close to a daily thing, but so has relaxing together on the couch, making meals (nothing complicated, neither of them is much of a chef, but they at least have a little variety), just sharing each other’s space. Rumlow working one-handed on his laptop, filing backlogged paperwork while Barton lays on his lap, his own laptop balanced on his stomach as he plays that strategy game (_Edge of War,_ it’s called. Barton had tried to explain the basics to him, set him up to play, and he’d determined quickly that he was never going to be good at it). He hasn’t logged on to the Hydra server since their third day together and he knows Pierce has to be getting antsy for an update, but what can he really say? Until he sorts it out in his own head, determines what exactly the warm curl in his chest that rises when Barton gets close to him _ is_, he doesn’t want to file anything official.

_ You’re falling for him, idiot _ wars with _ It’s a side effect of his heat, take advantage _ in his mind, one weighing heavier, then the other. Every time Rumlow tries to push it away, he’s left with his secondary consideration: what would the others on S.T.R.I.K.E. be doing right now? And that leads to a cold ball of dread in his stomach, which pushes his mind back to the idea that he could be interested in Barton as more than a mission, which just circles him back to the internal argument.

Missions where he just has to shoot someone, retrieve something, stop a catastrophe are so much easier.

* * *

He’s actually grateful to wake up before Barton in the morning, day eight of the mission. He’s spent too much time warring in his own head the last few days, he needs to get out of the Triskelion, away from the scent of Omega heat hormones, and push his body until he can’t think of anything but how his muscles are working.

Rumlow starts on the path early, his focus only on one foot in front of the other. He doubles his usual morning jog, ups his pace, and neither sees nor hears when someone falls into step beside him for the last half of his second lap.

Maybe it’s a push too far, but the sweat he works up is good, the ache in his muscles feels nice, and as he drops onto the ground and pants for breath like it’s his first day of basic training again, he can’t help but grin. At least he didn’t throw up.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you push yourself that hard,” a familiar voice comments, a shadow over him. Rumlow opens one eye, pushing himself to sit up in the grass. He takes the offered hand, letting himself be hauled to his feet by Air Force, meeting the man’s grin. “Making up for lost time?”

“Something like that.” He pulls out his wallet, buys two bottles of water from a passing vendor and hands one off to the other man. Talking about missions, especially covert missions, isn’t his style, but it’s not like Air Force knows anything about him. “I’ve been cooped up with work. Feels good to finally stretch out.”

“Finally stretch out? You were running like you had a drill sergeant behind you.”

Rumlow smirks, wiping a hand over his mouth. “Like the Air Force knows anything about drill sergeants.”

“Oh, really?” The raised eyebrows of mock offense don’t hold back the grin. “We run the same track every now and then for a few months and now you wanna play like that?”

“Hey, Army taught me to fight dirty when I gotta.”

“This isn’t Vietnam anymore, old man.”

It’s Rumlow’s turn to snort in mock offense, giving the other man a light shove on the shoulder. “So, where’d you tour?”

“Afghanistan, 58th Pararescue.”

Rumlow nods slowly, taking another drink of water. “You ever think about getting back into the action?” He’s not a recruiter, for S.H.I.E.L.D. or Hydra, but it never hurts to plant an idea. And he _ likes _ Air Force--enough that he should probably ask his name.

Not that it matters much, the man already shaking his head. “No, I saw enough. Still see enough, down at the VA. Here.” He fishes out his own wallet, passing over a business card. “You ever wanna come down, just ask for me at the desk. Sam Wilson.”

“Brock Rumlow. I’ll keep it in mind.” He shakes the man’s hand, the corner of his mouth pulling up. He sees enough combat on a monthly basis that he genuinely forgets he’s considered a veteran. “Only been runnin’ together for, what, three months? And finally introduce ourselves.”

Wilson laughs, nodding in agreement. “The paragons of socialization, we are.”

His phone beeps and he pulls back to check it, almost positive it’s a message from Barton. Seeing the all report for S.T.R.I.K.E. makes him frown, eyes darting around the grassy mall. “Shit, I better go. Duty calls.” All report is a serious matter, especially if it overrides his active covert assignment.

“That action you’re still in?” Wilson guesses, waving him off lightly. “See you soon, man.”

* * *

Rollins catches him in the lobby after his run. His second falls into step with him, still armed, still in his tac gear. There’s a hell of a bruise on his cheek and blood on his uniform, which speaks volumes of how the Bern job went.

“Sir.”

“Rollins.”

“Secretary wants you upstairs in thirty for the Bern debrief.”

Rumlow rolls his eyes. “That bad?”

“Standard sweep and clear, minimal engagement with hostiles.” He glances over, grinning at Rumlow’s quirked eyebrow. “Jackson and I got into it again on the way back. I put him back in his place.”

“Then why do I have to be there? I wasn’t on this job.” He stops at the elevator, turning his pass slowly in his hand.

“Wasn’t told, sir. Just passing on a message.”

“Thirty minutes?”

“Yes, sir.”

It’s enough time for a shower. Not really enough time to give Barton what he’ll need. Rumlow steps into the elevator, swiping his pass and holding up a hand when Rollins tries to enter. “Catch the next one. I’ll be there.”

“Sir, there is something else.” He puts a hand on the doors, frowning, his voice lowering. “Romanoff and Rogers are back from their assignment. They rode back with us. I think Fury is having S.T.R.I.K.E. shadowed.”

He grits his teeth, darting a glance to the crowded lobby behind Rollins, the camera in the elevator. “Backup isn’t being shadowed, Rollins. If Fury wants a couple of Avengers to help S.T.R.I.K.E. out, we stay out of their way. People like that let guys like us retire to Florida instead of taking a bullet to the head.”

“Yes, sir.” Rollins salutes quickly, stepping back as the elevator doors slide closed.

Rumlow breathes deep outside the suite he and Barton are set up in, looking at his watch. Thirty minutes from contact in the lobby means he really only has time to shower and change. Hopefully Barton isn’t in too dire straits.

He lets himself into the suite, pulling his shirt off almost before the door has shut, crossing to the bedroom. Things seem okay, the scent of Barton isn’t filling the entire space, and when he glances in the door the man is actually still in bed, sprawled across as much of the mattress as possible with the blankets twisted around his bare legs, face buried in a pillow. Rumlow smiles, crossing the room and rubbing his shoulder gently. “Hey, Clint.”

“Mm?” A hand half-heartedly grabs his wrist before dropping, Barton turning his face out of the pillow to blink up at him. “Oh, hey…”

“Yeah, morning, sleepy. How you feelin’?”

He rolls onto his back with a yawn, stretching out slowly. “Not bad. Maybe the worst of it is over, huh?”

“Don’t get your hopes up.” Could it be over, though? Barton’s shown far more control than any other heat addled Omega he’s ever heard of. Could he be willing himself through it as quickly as possible, with as much self control as he can muster? Tendrils of cold dread worm up Rumlow’s spine at the thought. If so, it’s mission failure. There are the enhancers, though…

“You look worried.”

“My team just got back from assignment and they want me upstairs for the debriefing. Have a feeling it’s because a couple of my guys got into a fight with each other that got physical.” He sighs, brushing a hand through his hair. “I gotta be up there in about twenty minutes to deal with that.”

Barton frowns, waving him off lightly. “You better shower and make yourself look presentable, then. Hopefully it isn’t too bad.” He yawns, rolling over and curling his arms around Rumlow’s pillow. “I’ll make breakfast when you get back.”

He doesn’t think it through, he just acts, leans down and kisses Barton’s temple. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Clock’s ticking, but he rushes through a shower and gets dressed with time to spare. Barton grabs his wrist before he can leave the bedroom, squeezing gently.

“Brock… I was wondering… after this is over, I mean…”

“After this is over you’ll probably be back to avenging and I’ll be back to breaking up fights in S.T.R.I.K.E. before they start and not filing my paperwork on time.”

Teeth work his lower lip and Barton won’t meet his eyes, his hand dropping. “So what about on days off?”

He stills, staring at the far wall. Slowly, Rumlow turns back to Barton, leaning in and kissing him--slow and gentle, like he really cares. Maybe he does. “I’ve been trying not to think about it.”

“We should go out for beers or something, at least.”

“At least.” He glances at his watch, cursing under his breath. “Talk about it when I get back, okay? Over breakfast.” He lets another kiss linger against Barton’s forehead, pulling away with a smile. “See you soon, Clint.”

* * *

The Bern debrief is about what he expects. No one even mentions the personal conflict between Rollins and Jackson. He’d debrief them on it if they did it under his command, but with Rollins taking point, that duty can gladly fall to him. They’re not the military anymore, insubordination isn’t met with a court martial. It’s usually solved with harsh words in the moment, maybe fists, and wrapped up with a beer together after work. He knows how it goes.

Rumlow sits through the debrief and the secondary set of after-action reports that only a few of the team stick around for. The tech they retrieved isn’t S.H.I.E.L.D, but Hydra has use for it, and even with two Avengers possibly spying on them, they managed to sneak it back subtly. Rumlow reads the file carefully, the corner of his mouth pulling up. Armored gauntlets with blades hidden in them, hydraulic powered to pack an extra punch. Seems almost comic book, but he can see the use. Break through walls, break through spines… He’s willing to bet that even a Super Soldier like Rogers would feel a hit from one of _ those _ in the morning.

There’s one more piece of information in the briefing, a sour note to end on. Their tech for the Insight launch, Hernandez, died in a car accident the night before. Rumlow vaguely remembers him, a middle-aged man with a whiny voice who probably would never survive Hydra’s new world. He wasn’t the type who embraced pain as a road to strength and order, he ran from it and hid behind those that would take it for him. 

The new guy, Klein, isn’t promising, but it’s not like they can manipulate everything. Rumlow takes a look at his profile, frowning. _ Coward_, he decides. Push comes to shove, this kid will bend the knee.

Pierce dismisses the others with that, turning to face Rumlow, still seated at the conference table. “So, how’s your assignment coming along?”

He should have known. In a way, he did know. He shrugs one shoulder, pulling up Barton’s profile on his datapad. “It seems more imperative that he trust me, that he have reason to believe in the world we’re creating. Barton won’t flip if I force this, but if I twist it so that he thinks it’s his idea… He’ll play our game.”

“How much time do you need?”

This is the problem. They’re months away from their goal, but he needs to be in the field, not babysitting a horny Avenger. Rumlow taps his fingers on the conference table, looking up at the ceiling. “Have medical keep him off active assignment, off suppressors. Don’t assign him a new handler. He’ll need someone and I’ll be there, the person he trusts, the Alpha who helped him through his last heat and stuck around afterwards. Keep Rogers and Romanoff busy, keep Fury away… He’ll fold to me on his own terms. Become Hydra’s without even knowing he’s doing it.” His smile is sharp and vicious, his eyes dark. “I’ll have him breeding the next generation of Hydra soldiers before the end of the year.” That’s what Pierce wants to hear, that’s what he’ll say. Whatever creeping guilt tries to speak up in the back of his mind is easy to block out when face to face with the leader of Hydra.

Pierce nods slowly, making notes on his laptop. “You’ll be resuming regular duties soon, in addition to this. We can’t have the more paranoid of our agents getting suspicious.”

“I have an idea for that.” It’s sudden, like a starburst behind his eyes, but already the possibilities are racing out in front of him at a million miles an hour. A house in the country, a real fixer upper, just like Barton’s been talking about. With his duty time restricted and his past making him a priority target of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s enemies, as few people as possible will be able to know where he is. He probably can’t keep Rogers and Romanoff away full time, but he can keep them away when it’s convenient… like when Barton goes into heat again. “I’ll need funding.”

“Send your requests through the secure server. Do what you have to. Dismissed.”

He’d been dragging his feet coming up to this debriefing, but now there’s a skip in his step. Soon enough, Barton will be all his.

* * *

He stops by his own office before going back down to residential, logs on to his computer and opens the secure server. It takes a little technical wiggling and a few instant messages with one of the Hydra guys in accounting, but he gets what he needs. A new type of pension, for those still technically on the payroll but moved off active assignment due to injury in the line of duty. A few hundred thousand that they can parcel out to Barton slowly over the coming months. He checks his own mission status, updated and moved from temporary assignment to long term undercover. Rumlow can work with those parameters.

A knock at the door catches his attention and he logs off the server quickly, looking up. “Come in.”

Just Rollins, cleaned up and dressed casually, making the shiner on his cheek stand out even more. “Pierce gave the team the rest of the day off to decompress, most of the guys are gonna meet for beers at the usual place tonight. You in, sir?”

“Would be, but I’m still on assignment.”

Rollins shakes his head. “Right, your top secret assignment. I left the beer from Bern in your apartment, by the way.” His eyes narrow ever-so-slightly, assessing Rumlow, his office, and the situation in general. “You haven’t been there in a while. Those aren’t your clothes. And all that back paperwork the techs usually bitch at me about is caught up. Did they take you off active?”

There’s a reason Rollins is his second, but sometimes Rumlow hates that reason. Mostly when the man’s shrewd assessments turn on him. He groans, dropping back into his chair. “No, they didn’t take me off active. I’m working an angle for Pierce. I’ll be back on for our next deployment.”

“Better be. If I have to try to run another op with Jackson’s ongoing commentary about my tactics, I’m going to put that fucker in the hospital.” He waves his own dismissal, shutting the door behind him.

Rumlow rubs his temples gently, closing his eyes. Soon he’ll be able to talk about what he’s doing. Soon it won’t matter that he’s been manipulating Barton, turning him to Hydra’s point of view. Soon enough, Hydra’s world is the only world that will exist.

He shuts the computer down, heading out of his office and back to the elevator. His pass to residential is still green, that’s a good sign.

The clock is ticking before Romanoff figures out where Barton is and what’s happening. He’s going to be walking a tightrope until it tips one way or the other.

* * *

Barton’s waiting for him with breakfast, strong coffee, and a smile. They settle onto the couch to eat, leaving the TV off in favor of conversation. It’s tooth-rottingly domestic; telling Barton about the Bern job and the fight between Rollins and Jackson like any of it matters. He takes a sip of coffee, leaning back and closing his eyes. “Usually I’m there to stop them before they come to blows, but honestly, I think they needed to do it. S.H.I.E.L.D. would disapprove, but… It’s kind of an Alpha thing, I guess. Always challenging to be the one on top until you either succeed or get put in your place.”

“Is that how you ended up S.T.R.I.K.E. Commander?”

Rumlow laughs, shaking his head. “I ended up S.T.R.I.K.E. Commander because I proved myself in the field, not in a fistfight. And the guys follow me because they know that I belong at the top. Jackson’s been at Rollins’ throat for months now, this was just… an opportunity for them to settle it. They’ll be at the bar drinking beers together tonight like nothing happened and things will calm down at work.”

He wraps his arm around Barton’s shoulders, kissing his temple lightly. “Nothing like that in solo work or avenging, I take it?”

Barton shrugs crookedly. “Definitely not in solo work. As far as avenging… I mean, it’s kinda hard not to just do what Captain America says, you know? We’ve all got our own inputs, but…” He grins. “It’s Steve fucking Rogers, living legend and he definitely lives up to the legend.”

“An inspiring leader if ever there was one, huh?” Rumlow smiles back, fighting down the urge to tighten his hold on Barton. That look in his eyes, that’s just… admiration and respect. Rogers probably inspires that in everyone, no matter what. And he isn’t jealous, Barton is just a job. The more he reminds himself of that fact, the easier it is to convince himself he believes it. “He’s back in town, you know. Him and Romanoff got back today, so… I mean, I guess if there’s anything left for you to ride out, one of them can come down and keep you company for the rest of it.” He keeps the words casual, forces himself to keep his face neutral. Let Barton come to him.

It’s instantly effective. The Omega practically crawls into his lap, pressing his face into the side of Rumlow’s neck and breathing slow. “Do you mind staying?”

He trails a hand down Barton’s spine, tugging him in just a bit closer. “Do you want me to?”

“I…” He lets out a breath with a shudder, his fingers curling in the Alpha’s shirt. “Yeah. I want you to stay.”

“Then I’ll stay. And afterwards… I’ll stick around then, too, if you want. When I can.” He sets his coffee cup aside, tilting Barton’s chin up and kissing him gently. “I like you, Clint. Wanna get to know you outside of this whole… thing.”

Barton presses another kiss to his lips, his eyes sparkling. “If I say I like you, too, are you gonna blame it on my hormones? Or are you gonna accept the fact that I’m a grown-up and can make my own choices?”

“We-ell…” He takes the light slap to his cheek with a grin, turning back and meeting those bright brown eyes. “Fine. It’s not _ just _ your hormones that make me so damn tolerable to you. Kid.”

“I’m gonna start calling you an old man if you keep calling me kid.” Their foreheads press together, Barton’s hand finding his, linking their fingers together. “I like you, Brock. I don’t… usually like people. There’s only been a handful since I got to S.H.I.E.L.D, and you’re on that list now.” His voice is low, serious, his eyes not letting Rumlow look away. “I’d do anything for the people that earn my trust. Anything.”

“Clint…” He kisses him, slow and gentle, squeezing his hand. “You sure I’m worth that?”

“Yeah. And I guess I’m gonna have to convince you of that fact, too, Brock.”

There’s something warm inside him, something clouding his mind over, making his heart hammer. He finally pulls his gaze away, pressing his face into Barton’s neck and breathing slowly. “Might take some time.”

“I’ll make time for you.” It’s Barton who envelopes him this time, holds him tight and skims a thumb over the back of his neck. “Just don’t… don’t give me a reason to regret this. People have before, and it always ends up messy.”

There’s time to ask questions about it later. There’s time to turn this into strategy later. There’s time to decide if he even wants to later. For the moment, his mind is overwhelmed with _ Clint Barton_; with the want, the _ need _ to hold him, to kiss him, to be worth his time and attention. He hasn’t wanted something this badly in years. He hasn’t felt something this _ good _ in decades.

He’s falling, he knows he’s falling, his mission is compromised and Rumlow can’t bring himself to care about that.

“God, I am so fucked.”

The laughter in his ear sends shivers racing up his spine, the words jolting his heart into his throat. “If you want, we can do that, too.”


	5. I Never Meant For You (To Fix Yourself)

“You mind if Nat comes down for a bit?” Barton asks from the couch as he does the dishes from their dinner. It’s been another quiet afternoon for them, mostly spent slowly exploring this new aspect of their… He hesitates to put a label on what they may or may not have too soon.

Rumlow frowns. “Why would I mind? She’s your friend, right?”

“I dunno, don’t you Alphas get all weird about stuff like that?”

“Not like I own you, Clint.” He waves a hand. “I can make myself scarce, if you want. Does she have access to this area? I had to get a special pass for security to let me down here.”

“Nah, stick around. And I can grant access from here.” He types for a bit, before putting the laptop aside and heading for the bathroom. “I’m gonna take a quick shower and put on something a little less… Saturday morning cartoons.”

Rumlow waits until the shower is running to go to Barton’s laptop, the screen still on and his messages still up. He doesn’t dare touch anything and disrupt the sleep timer, but he skims what he can read of the most recent ones.

A little bit about their game, then a simple “I’m back” from Romanoff. There are no timestamps, but if the Avengers have to debrief and have mandatory decompression time like S.T.R.I.K.E., he’s willing to bet that that message is only an hour or so old.

Barton had told her that he was in the Triskelion, that he was down in Residential riding out heat. Romanoff had asked if he’d wanted some company, expressed that she would have come down sooner if she knew. And there it is, his name.

> _ Brock Rumlow from S.T.R.I.K.E. has been making it easier. Not like that. Not ENTIRELY like that. I’ll let him know you’re coming to visit. _

A new message blinks onto the screen as the shower shuts off and he glances over his shoulder, darting a look at the message before hurrying back to the kitchen. Romanoff, on her way down.

The words alternate in his head--_I’ll let him know _ versus _ Do you mind_\--like a carousel set to spin too fast. Is Barton playing him? Twisting words in a way he wants to hear to make him compliant? Or is he getting paranoid? Maybe it’s just the way the man talks to Romanoff as opposed to how he talks to Rumlow? The statements given to an equal compared to the questions posed to a superior. There’s no way Barton sees him as a superior, no matter his ranking in S.H.I.E.L.D. or his age or--

His hands still in the process of wiping down the counter, interrupted on three fronts: Barton exiting the bathroom, a knock at the front door, and the thought in his own head.

Does Barton see him as _ his _ Alpha? 

“I got it!” He calls, forcing all of it aside, forcing normalcy. Barton gives him a short smile and disappears into the bedroom and Rumlow wipes his hands on the towel, crossing to the front door and opening it.

Romanoff, as he expected, looking extremely well put together for someone who just got in from a six hour time zone change. She gives him a short up and down look before smiling, stepping into the apartment as Rumlow steps aside. “Rumlow.”

“Romanoff.”

“Natasha!” Barton emerges from the bedroom, still damp, pulling on a t-shirt. He’s found jeans and while his feet are still bare, he certainly does look more like he’s getting ready to go out for a normal day, instead of having spent the last week or so cooped up in a couple of rooms. He wraps his arms around her, nearly lifting his fellow Avenger off the ground.

“Hey, Clint.” Romanoff cups his cheeks and kisses his forehead with a grin, her eyes on his. With an effort, Rumlow walks as far away as the kitchen, grabbing a few drinks from the fridge. He joins them on the couch, passing out bottles of water. 

Barton settles between them, his body easily falling back to lean on Rumlow, though his attention is fully on Romanoff. His voice carries excitement and animation like Rumlow has rarely heard the entire time they’ve been down here, and he forces down every bitter emotion that rises from the sound of it.

“It’s been like being on vacation, really, except the whole locked in an apartment thing. But Brock and I have been going to the little gym down on Res Four. Might have a few new moves next time we spar.” He stretches his arms over his head, one hand reaching back to stroke through Rumlow’s hair. “So, what’s been happening in the outside world?”

Romanoff shrugs, her gaze tracking the easy progress of Barton’s hand, one eyebrow raising slightly. “Well, Steve and I just got back from an assignment in Zurich. The WSC isn’t entirely happy with the idea of a bunch of superheroes just doing what they want, so we had to smooth things over.”

“Did you remind them that half of us are just people who happen to be very good at very specific things?”

“Yeah, and they reminded me that a third of the team is a Hulk and a demigod.” She shakes her head, taking a sip of water. “Hitched a ride back with S.T.R.I.K.E. and got to watch two grown men beat the crap out of each other, though. What kind of group do you run with, Rumlow?”

He laughs, waving that off quickly. “Already discussed that incident to death. S.T.R.I.K.E. needs order,” _ and order only comes from pain_, he bites off, his eyes darting to Barton. “Rollins and Jackson are probably toasting each other at the bar right now. It’s just how we roll.”

Romanoff tips her head back slightly. “You have an interesting way of enforcing the hierarchy.”

“Put that many Alphas all together and then change who’s in charge, there’s bound to be blowback. Jackson and Rollins have been at each other’s throats for a while now, this was a good opportunity for them to settle it. But seriously, no matter what it looked like, it’s taken care of. Handled that debrief myself.” He has to be careful lying to her. Lying to Barton had been easier, the man didn’t have all his faculties about him and by the time he was more coherent, Rumlow had built up some trust.

It’s Barton now who spares him rehashing the whole incident and debrief, snorting. “No offense, ‘Tasha, but if I have to hear about the latest S.T.R.I.K.E. knot-measuring contest one more time, I’m gonna scream. Tell me about the outside world. Come on, I’ve been going stir-crazy down here.”

Her eyes are still on them, on the casual way Rumlow’s arm has draped around Barton’s shoulders, on the hand stroking into his hair. “Stir crazy, huh?” She takes another drink, before pressing on.

None of it is particularly news to Rumlow, and he finds himself drifting away from their conversation, settling in to the rhythm of fingertips rubbing his scalp, the warmth of a body pressed close to him. He’s not sure when he closes his eyes, but they open again, darting to Romanoff as she speaks.

“Fury got a call from medical today at the end of the debrief. They want to assess you in the morning, see if your heat is over, then send you in for a psyche check. Sounds like you might be back in the field in a couple of days.” 

“Anything about assigning me a new handler?”

Romanoff shakes her head slowly, looking down. “Not yet.”

“Huh.” Hard to place if that’s surprised, disappointed, or relieved. Somehow the monosyllable seems to contain all three.

“Maybe you don’t need one, Clint. I mean--”

Barton shrugs, his back tense against Rumlow’s side. “I don’t _ want _ one, that’s for sure. No one can replace Coulson, and… Let’s face it, after what I did, no one is going to want to work with me. It’s always going to be in the back of their mind, _ what if Barton is compromised again_, and I shouldn’t put anyone through that stress just because I…” He glances over his shoulder, trailing off. “Well, you know.”

“I do know. I also know that you hadn’t had an incident in years until Loki. We can talk about it later.” Her hand touches his knee, squeezing for a moment. “So I introduced Rogers to Thai food last night.”

Rumlow files away the conversation for later investigation, forcing himself back into the present with a little laugh. “Please tell me that Captain America is a spice baby.”

Romanoff grins at him, her smile devious. “He almost _ cried _ when I said that I’d ordered him something mild.”

“God bless that hot mess of a man,” Barton snickers, wiggling a little closer to Rumlow. “Has Tony hit him with a ghost pepper yet? I want to lay claim to that disaster waiting to happen.”

“Tony got him with those Miracle Berries. Here.” She pulls her phone out, queueing up a video of Captain America biting into a peeled lemon and declaring it sweet, that the 21st century has changed lemons as well as bananas. There’s a second video, taken on a different day, clearly filmed covertly. They all watch as he picks up a lemon wedge from the edge of his glass of water and bites into it, nearly spitting the sour fruit across the room. The unmistakable sound of Tony Stark’s laughter echoes off-camera before the video ends.

“Banocolate,” Rumlow offers, unable to help the ease that he falls into this conversation with. “Looks like chocolate, tastes like banana. Willing to bet that throws him for a spin.”

“I’m writing that down right now.” Romanoff types into her phone briefly. 

It’s nearly midnight by the time she leaves, really only sent away by Barton’s increasingly frequent yawns. She embraces him near the door, her lips moving close to his ear. When they pull away, Barton is flushed but grinning. Romanoff and Rumlow exchange nods and in a flash of red hair, she’s out the door.

Rumlow waits until they’re in bed, Barton’s head resting on his chest, to ask. “Wanna tell me what had you looking so pink right before she left?”

“Mmm… maybe I don’t.” He tilts his head up, chin digging in to Rumlow’s chest. “Maybe I don’t want you knowing that the closest person to me, practically my sister, thinks you’re good for me. Might inflate your ego.”

“My ego can’t get much bigger. I’ve really got the Romanoff seal of approval?”

“You’ve really got it. Now shuddup, I’m exhausted.”

Worried for nothing. If Romanoff approves of the two of them, she won’t go digging around for ulterior motives. Rumlow kisses the top of Barton’s head gently, letting himself drift off to sleep.

* * *

They’re both up early the next morning, Rumlow out for a run and Barton up to medical for some poking and prodding. He’s surprised that Wilson isn’t on the usual track, but shuts the thought out quickly, shaking out the stiffness in his muscles and getting moving.

Rumlow sees him as he nears the end, sat on the grass under a tree, stretching out. He drops down next to the other man, flopping onto his back and staring at the sky. “You get an early start?”

“Little bit. Ah, damn…” He massages his calf, hissing.

“Need a hand?” Rumlow pushes himself back up, helping stretch out the cramp before working on easing his own sore muscles. “What, you decided to finally start pushing yourself harder?”

“Pushin’ myself harder, man, you’re like twice my age and you run half as often. What, are you another one of those super soldiers like Captain America?”

He laughs, dropping back to the grass and tilting his head. “No, I just never stop being in the action.”

“Only thing you focus on, right?” Wilson shakes his head, looking off towards the climbing sun. It’s going to be hot as hell today. “So, where are you finding so much action around here? Secret Service? FBI?”

“S.H.I.E.L.D., actually. I…” Technically, his job description is behind a clearance code, but he can be vague. “I work in rapid response antiterrorism.”

Wilson lets out a low whistle. “Sounds pretty exciting. Hey, isn’t S.H.I.E.L.D.--” He’s cut off as Rumlow’s phone beeps in his pocket.

“I probably can’t answer any questions.” He glances at his phone, mouth curving into a smile. Barton, out of medical and heading for psyche.

> _ Good news, heat’s done. Bad news, they don’t think I’ll be back on active any time soon. _

He types back quickly, getting to his feet. A quick goodbye to Wilson before he’s walking back to headquarters. He’ll have time to look into these incidents of Barton’s that Romanoff had mentioned the night before while the man is in psyche. And time to figure out how to plant the idea of getting that fixer upper project started. Assuming S.T.R.I.K.E. doesn’t get scrambled for a job.

He curses himself for even thinking about it, curses louder when he gets up to the floor and sees most of the team assembled and in their gear. He hasn’t gotten a scramble alert, seeks out Rollins with a frown. “We have a job?”

“You didn’t get the alert?”

“No. Fucking--_dammit_, I haven’t signed back in from my last op yet. Hang on, I’ll fix it.” Rumlow hurries for his office, typing both on his computer and on his phone.

> _ S.T.R.I.K.E. got scrambled for a job, I’ll text you when I’m back. _

He signs himself off the Barton job, back onto S.T.R.I.K.E. active, confirming the change verbally. Immediately his phone lights up with alerts, a S.H.I.E.L.D. outreach compound in Pakistan invaded, hostages being held. He skims the team assembly, frowning to see Captain Rogers at the top of the list rather than himself. Well, that’s what he gets for forgetting to change his mission status. Or maybe that’s just how it’s going to be, with Captain America at S.H.I.E.L.D. full time.

Rumlow gears up and joins the team on the way to the quinjet, falling into step up front with Rogers and Romanoff. “Looks like this is your call, Captain.”

“You know S.T.R.I.K.E. better than I do, Rumlow, I’ll defer them to you. Our priority is hostage rescue. Hostile neutralization comes second.”

Romanoff nods quickly, plugging a thumb drive into the quinjet’s display. “We think they’re after something more than a ransom. I’ll be breaking off from the group once we touch down, looking for secondary targets.”

“S.T.R.I.K.E.!” Rumlow calls to his team, facing the group. “You heard the Captain. Hostage rescue first, hostile elimination second. Standard breach and clear. Rollins and Tolvey will secure an exit route. Jackson, Morrison, and Burke, you’ll stick with me. We stay out of Romanoff’s way.” He gives her a sideways glance and a grin. “Unless shit goes so sideways that she’s calling for help, in which case we’re probably better off running for our lives.”

“You’re so charming, Agent Rumlow.”

“I know.” He turns back to the monitor, tracking with a finger. “Last call out of the building cited a dozen hostiles and about twenty hostages, including two children. Let’s make this clean, everyone.”

Rollins is staring at him intently, towards the front of the gathered troops. “Any priority extractions, sir?”

_ Hydra personnel_, he means. Can’t exactly drop that name in front of Rogers, though. Rumlow glances at his screen, but Rogers speaks up before he can answer. “All of them. We don’t leave anyone behind and we don’t lose anyone. Consider that an order.”

“Sir.” Rollins is still staring at him. Rumlow shakes his head minutely. He’s not going to contradict Rogers in front of everyone, though his own mission parameters cite two high ranking Hydra members that require priority extraction.

“You heard the Captain. S.T.R.I.K.E., prepare for engagement.”

The quinjet drops them silently onto the roof of the compound’s main building, and they get to work.

* * *

It all goes to shit so spectacularly. Right before his very eyes. Rumlow can still feel the ache in his hand, the white-knuckle grip he had on his handgun. Leading his priority targets out and around the corner they’d come, two of the hostiles with the kids in front of them, guns at their heads.

If he closes his eyes, he knows he’ll see it. Rumlow stares across the silent quinjet, meeting Romanoff’s gaze briefly before looking away. 

He’d been prepared to shoot them first, but those big, terrified eyes… And then one of his escorts had broken rank, darted forward like an _ idiot _ and there was the gunfire, the screaming, the _ clang _ of Rogers’ shield as it took down the hostiles. The two men had stared at each other over the bodies on the floor, two children and three adults. His second escort hung back, looking green.

With effort, he shakes off the memory. This isn’t the first time he’s seen a dead kid. Hell, he’s caused a few, back in his Army days. Nothing he’s terribly proud of, but… 

But he’d been staring at them just as dumbstruck, still holding his gun ready, and Rogers had touched his shoulder and asked, low and calm, if he could complete the mission. Rumlow was a lot of things, but a quitter wasn’t one of them. He’d squared his shoulders, looked up to the Captain, and nodded once. Priority escort. Rollins and Tolvey were radioing in the count of hostages rescued, they had almost everyone.

His feet hit the tarmac before the door has even fully opened, his back straight. “S.T.R.I.K.E., with me for debrief.” He glances over to Rogers and Romanoff in the evening light. God, it’s been at least thirty-six hours since any of them slept and they all look like it. “Do you two want to come?”

“You can handle it, Rumlow?” Rogers looks like hell warmed over, dark circles under his eyes.

Rumlow nods shortly. “I got this, Cap. Go get some sleep. You too, Romanoff.”

He keeps it short and informal, only the absolutely necessary information. One priority target extracted, one other killed by hostiles. Rumlow dismisses his unit and leans against the wall of the conference room, closing his eyes.

When his phone beeps, he can barely make himself check. If it’s another duty report, he’s going to lose his shit.

It’s Barton, asking how the job went. Rumlow frowns, feeling the real weight of the last day and a half drop onto his shoulders. All he wants to do is go down to Res Three, curl up on the couch with the man, and watch some bizarre home remodeling show. Maybe_ Cabin Customizers _ or something.

After a moment, he starts texting back.

> _ Not good. _
> 
> _ Come over? _

He sends his address, pauses, considers it, then adds a fourth message.

> _ Bring beer. _

Rumlow drives to his apartment as the sun sinks, tries not to see the splash of blood against the floor at every red light he hits. He curses low under his breath as he finally pulls his truck into his parking space, looking up the towering building. He’s willing to bet that the elevator is still busted and climbing six flights of stairs is the last thing he wants to do. Still…

Dragging his feet, wishing he’d swapped his combat boots for running shoes back at S.H.I.E.L.D. (hell, he’s still in his bloodstained tac gear, now that he thinks about it), Rumlow makes his way upstairs. He lets himself in to the studio apartment, turning on the overhead light first, then the fan. He opens a window against the still air in there, looking around. All he really does here is sleep, eat, and shower. The place is as tidy as he left it, the only thing even a little out of place the six pack of beer set on his kitchen counter.

He cracks one open against the chipped laminate countertop and drinks quickly, putting the others into the fridge for later. The beer from Bern that Rollins brought him is good, he doesn’t necessarily want to waste it on drinking away his sorrows. That’s what the cabinet in the corner is for, anyways.

Rumlow steps into the walk in closet between the living space and bathroom, stripping down quickly and pulling on comfortable shorts and an old shirt. He scrubs his face in the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror. 

“Fuck, you look like an old man,” he mutters, jerking his head up at the knock on the door. “It’s open!”

Barton lets himself in, dropping the two six-packs of beer on the counter as Rumlow comes out to join him. He steps over immediately, dropping his head to the Omega’s shoulder.

“That bad?”

“It shouldn’t be. I just…” He groans, letting himself be led to his couch, dropping onto it. “There were kids.” He hears Barton swallow, but he can’t make himself stop. “It was my fault. I couldn’t stop them from…”

“Hey. Hey, no.” Barton grasps his face, lifting him up and pressing a light kiss to his mouth. “You don’t get to blame yourself for this, Brock.” 

“Yeah? Well, I sure feel responsible. I told the team not to deviate from Rogers’ orders and then did just that.” He drops his head again, sighing into Barton’s neck. His arms wrap around the other man’s waist, drawing him close. “One of the priority extractions got killed, too. Pierce is gonna rip me a new one. Sloan was supposed to--” He stops himself, pressing his lips to Barton’s neck to cut off the words. Sloan was supposed to be on the ship that would be sending up the Insight satellite when it was ready. Now they’d have to find someone else to authorize that.

“Okay, that’s enough moping.” Once more, he finds himself pushed back, warm lips on his. “When’s the last time you slept?”

“Mm… thirty-six hours?”

“And had a decent meal?”

He’d skipped breakfast, intending to eat after his run. There were protein bars on the quinjet, but Rumlow knows those barely count as a meal, never mind a decent one. “Way longer.”

“I am going to cook you some dinner and then we are going to lie down together and get some sleep.” Barton stands up, moving to the small kitchen. He puts the beers in the fridge, looking through it with a frown. “You have like no food, man.”

“Haven’t been grocery shopping in a while.” Rumlow forces himself to stand, starting the job of pulling the couch out into its full bed mode. Usually he just sleeps on it in couch mode, but that seems less than comfortable for two people. “Don’ judge, I just use this place for sleeping and showering mostly.”

“We need to get you a hobby.” He rummages through the cupboards, sighing. “Okay, I think… Yeah, I can make something from this.” With a grin, Barton gets started, putting water on to boil. “Won’t be the best meal we’ve ever had, but buttered noodles are practically a staple meal for a bad day.”

“Throw some garlic powder on them, too.” With a final grunt of effort, he gets the couch fully opened. Rumlow slips back into the closet, getting out pillows and blankets and tossing them onto the folded out bed. Bed sounds better than food right now, but if he eats, that’s more time with Barton. He can wonder about that level of motivation later. “Oh, hey…” He already knows the answer, but he has to pretend otherwise. “So how’d your psyche eval go?”

At the stove, Barton goes still, the spaghetti halfway to the pot of boiling water. Rumlow moves around the counter, hands settling at his waist gently. “Psyche doesn’t want me back in the field. They don’t know what… what Loki’s mind control might have done, long term. If I relapse on a job, well…”

“Doesn’t end so well for S.H.I.E.L.D., yeah.” He kisses the side of the other man’s neck lightly, arms draping around him. “What about the Avengers? That’s Fury’s pet project, right? Not technically controlled by S.H.I.E.L.D. at all.”

“I can remain on call for that one, yeah. If they need me.”

Rumlow settles his chin on Barton’s shoulder, pulling the Omega just a bit tighter to his chest. He lets one hand slide up under Barton’s shirt, like the man has done to him so many times, slowly stroking skin against skin. “Who wouldn’t need the amazing Hawkeye, huh?”

“Don’t be an asshole, Brock.”

“But that’s what I’m good at.” His nails scrape gently over Barton’s stomach, pulling a twisting shiver from him. “Considering it took aliens landing in New York to get the Avengers together last time, you’ll probably have a lot of free time, right? Thought of how to fill it?”

Barton twists and turns in his arms, finally wiggling around to face him. He leans up just slightly on the balls of his feet, putting their foreheads together. “I feel like you’re about to offer a suggestion.”

“I seem to recall something about fixing up a place out in the country.” Plant the seed, let him make the rest of the moves. It’s almost too easy.

“Pipe dream. Retirement. I’m not ready to call it quits just yet.” Still, his brows draw together in a frown. “You remember me talking about that?”

“Yeah. It kinda… stuck out to me, Clint. Having a retirement plan in our line of work…” He glances over Barton’s shoulder, cursing and letting him go. “Pasta.”

“Fuck.”

They finish making their simple dinner, bringing bowls of buttered noodles and bottles of beer over to the couch turned bed. His apartment is miniscule, there’s not really room for a table and chairs. With the couch folded out, it’s a tight squeeze just to get around it to the closet and bathroom.

“Maybe we should try to move back into the Triskelion. I kinda got used to having such a big place.”

“You could always move to a bigger place here. Come on, you’ve gotta make enough to afford something more than this.” Barton raises an eyebrow, gesturing around the simple studio.

He swallows a mouthful of noodles, chasing it with a swallow of beer. “Most of my paycheck goes to my mother. I only keep enough to keep myself afloat.” Quick lies are easier than hard truths; he should have told Barton he has some strange and expensive hobby, like restoring motorcycles or collecting antique firearms. It’s the lack of sleep and sated stomach that has him admitting the truth. It has to be. “My old man died shortly after I got outta the Army and joined S.H.I.E.L.D. Didn’t leave my mother a penny, just a bunch of debt. I wasn’t on speaking terms with either of them when he went, didn’t even go to the funeral… Couple years later, I started getting calls from bill collectors. So I call my mother, ready to rip into her about it, and just… You ever hear someone’s voice, and you just _ know _ they’re right on the edge of breakin’, one more thing to push them over? She was almost a hundred thousand dollars in the hole, between his credit cards and his gambling and his fuckin’ funeral… I wired her forty grand, almost all of what was in my bank account. Moved to a smaller place, fought tooth and nail for every promotion I could get…” He looks away, drinking more slowly now. “I kept her afloat and cleared all of his debt. Thought maybe she’d be able to have a nice retirement, I could keep her going on a stipend. She rented a little trailer in one of those senior citizen parks in Florida, had friends and bridge club and it was… It was good. A good year. I went down to visit her once, even. And then… Then she got sick. All that stress finally pushed her over the edge. No health insurance, not since her husband died. So I moved into an even smaller place and started paying her medical bills out of pocket and…” He shrugs, his face carefully blank. “And now she and I are waiting to see if she dies or if I go broke first.”

“Brock…”

“Yeah, I know, real fuckin’ sob story. I don’t even go visit my own mother, just go online and pay her bills.” He drops the empty beer bottle to the floor beside the bed along with his bowl, lying down and stretching out. “Look, Clint, I don’t mean to be a goddamn wreck tonight. Just… stress.”

Barton puts aside his bowl and his empty beer bottle, lying down next to him. He wiggles, pulls his jeans off and drops them off the edge of the bed, too, before covering up with a blanket. “It’s fine. I told you, you’re worth my time. Good and bad, you’re worth it.” He settles his head against Rumlow’s chest, hand sliding up under his shirt. “Now get some sleep. You’re not gonna beat my awake time record, just hurt yourself trying, old man.”

“You punk son of a bitch…” It’s easier to fall asleep than argue about it, though. Much easier to drift off with his arms wrapped around Barton, the ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead and the ever-present sound of traffic on the streets below.

* * *

Compartmentalize. It’s what he does, it’s how he copes. One bad mission becomes a locked box of memories that he’ll just never open again.

Rumlow scrubs a hand against his face, staring at the after action report in front of him. He hates these things, he hates detailing every little piece of a mission, and most of all he hates having to edit them. He can’t just say he disobeyed Rogers’ orders to go after priority targets, he has to come up with a reason why he was personally escorting two hostages and left others unattended.

It’d be an easier lie to tell if neither of the priorities had survived, but that’s also a different can of worms.

He’s saved by a knock at the door, pushes away from his desk and looks up. “Come in.”

Rogers himself, dressed in civilian clothes, his broad shoulders almost filling the doorway of the office. “Rumlow.”

“What’s going on, Captain?” He sits back in his chair, unable to help the smile that pulls at his face. He didn’t exactly grow up a truth, justice, and the American way Boy Scout, but being in the same room with Captain America still sort of feels like a weird fever dream.

“I…” His weight shifts and oh, that’s charming, he’s _ nervous_. Rumlow sits forward a little, one eyebrow raising. “Two things. This last job, what happened, that wasn’t your fault. I should have been there--”

“Nuh-uh, Cap. If you’re gonna work with S.T.R.I.K.E., you should know the first rule is that we don’t assign blame for a fuck up. It puts too much pressure on a person the next time, makes more mistakes happen. We clean up and we move on.”

“Well… okay. If that’s how you do it.” He eases just slightly, glancing back towards the open door. “Natasha--Agent Romanoff, she was saying that you… kept Agent Barton company when he needed it. I wanted to say thanks for that. I’ve been in his position before and… having someone there as a friend definitely helps.”

Rumlow frowns, looking Rogers up and down slowly. “In his position--you mean the weird mind control or the other thing?”

“1941 was a big year for me, Rumlow. Lots of changes, lots of things that no one expected to happen happened.”

He laughs a little, nodding. “Funny that they left that out of the museum.”

“I think it reads a little weird. Anyways, just wanted to thank you in person. I kinda got… shoved up the chain of command, so I’m trying not to step on any toes.” Rogers smiles, almost sheepish, and for a moment Rumlow can see him as he was before the serum, small but not meek, kind but tough. The little guy willing to stand up to the big guy.

It’s going to destroy him when he learns about Hydra, Rumlow realizes.

“Usually if there’s a problem among the ranks in S.T.R.I.K.E. we punch it out and then go for beers afterwards to smooth it over. Guess you saw that go down with Rollins and Jackson the other day.” Rogers nods in agreement. “But personally, I can’t see me punching you ending very well, so… Hey, orders are orders. The rest of the team will fall in behind me and do what you say. I do think it’s kinda bullshit that I’m still filing all the after action reports when you’re in charge now, but I guess they like getting them three or four months late.”

“My penmanship is garbage, but if you send some my way, I’ll do my best.” He pauses, frowning at Rumlow’s laugh, before looking at the computer. “Oh--right. I knew that.” Rogers smiles, his cheeks flushed pink. “My typing is even worse than my penmanship.”

“I’ll get them done. The worst is the medical reports, but at least we don’t have any of those today.” He looks past Rogers to the closed door, keeping his voice casual. “How about Romanoff’s end of the mission? She find what she was looking for?”

“As far as I know. I tend to stay out of her way with that stuff. As long as her mission doesn’t interfere with ours, it works out.” Rogers shifts his weight, a little more relaxed and casual. “She’s taking me to a bar that she and Barton like to go to, here in town. Karaoke?” He pronounces it phonetically, his tongue stumbling over the word. “Which apparently is just getting drunk enough to sing in public, so I’m sure I’ll be a blast. Wonder if they’ll have any Ella Fitzgerald or if it’s all…” He looks thoughtful for a second, before pulling a notebook from his pocket and thumbing through it. “Nirvana.”

“They might have some. What’s that?”

Rogers holds up the notebook, shrugging. “The List. World history and pop culture that I missed after going into the ice.”

Rumlow hums in thought, closing his eyes for a moment. “_Rocky_. Maybe _ Rocky II_. There are better underdog sports movies out there, but I think you’ll like this one.”

He writes quickly, tucking the notebook away again. “Thanks. Hey, you want to come with us tonight? I’m sure they won’t mind.”

“Ah, I don’t know, that sounds like such a young--”

“Rumlow, I’m almost 95.”

His grin is helpless, easy. “I’ll think about it.” Rogers is real damn easy to get along with. And there’s a little rush in his veins at the idea of spending more time with Barton. “I better get back to work. These reports won’t write themselves and Pierce gets impatient if I don’t get them done. He can’t officially rip me a new one until they’re filed and he’s usually eager to.”

Rogers nods, opening the office door again and seeing himself out. He pauses, looking over his shoulder. “Hey, just remember, on S.T.R.I.K.E. you don’t assign blame for a screw up.”


	6. (My Teenage Dreams) It's Nothing Wrong With Me

It’s not like the bars he usually ends up at with S.T.R.I.K.E. No neon lights blinding the night, just a somewhat unassuming building in the middle of a string of them, the only hint that he’s at the right place being the name of it. He parks his truck in a lot nearby, running a hand through his hair before getting out. Like he’d told Rogers, he had to file those reports so Pierce could formally yell at him, and the man had certainly ripped him up one side and down the other in the privacy of his office before saying that they already had a solution to Rumlow’s fuck up. Jasper Sitwell would handle the Insight satellite launch from the _ Lemurian Star _ when the time came.

They’re supposed to meet at six, and it’s already ten after. He’s just glad he had a change of clothes at the office, had been able to hit the showers and didn’t have to wear his S.T.R.I.K.E. uniform for a night out. Exhaling slowly, purposely leaving all thoughts of work in the truck, he gets out and heads into the building.

“Rumlow!” Rogers spots him first, waves him over to join their small group at the bar. “Was starting to think you’d decided you’re too old for this.”

“Might still decide that.” He takes the empty seat next to Barton, giving the man a little smile. “So, did he tell you two he invited me, or am I about to make things awkward?”

“Oh, he told us.” Romanoff takes a sip of her drink, her eyebrows raising. “Luckily, we booked a room for up to four people.”

“Booked a room?”

Barton looks him up and down before nudging him lightly. “You’ve never been to a karaoke bar before, have you?”

“Guess you two have two ignorant old men tonight.” Rumlow shrugs, looking around. He knows what karaoke is, sure. Singing along terribly to pop songs. Much easier when drunk. He’s seen it at a few parties, but never wanted to subject others to his participation.

“Well, this is a little different. We’ve got a private room, so the only people that will have to suffer through my rendition of _ Don’t Stop Believing _ are you three. And the wait staff if they come in while I’m hitting my high notes. The room’s ours for an hour, but…” He gestures around. “We can extend that if we want to, they aren’t exactly slammed on a Thursday night.”

“Oh, god, is it Thursday?” Romanoff groans, checking her watch. “Clint, we’re not staying here until they kick us out. I have to go to LA tomorrow morning.”

“When’s the last time you spent more than a day in one time zone, Romanoff?” Rumlow shakes his head, standing up and following as they’re called, down a short hallway to a private room. It’s small, but comfortable enough for four, a low table in the middle with the karaoke set up on it, four mics plugged in. There are menus on the table as well, and they take their seats easily; Rogers and Romanoff on one side, Barton and himself on the other.

“The glamorous life of a spy.” She barely even glances at the menu, giving the waitress a smile. “Sujung gwa for me and can we have a bottle of the Namachozou?”

Barton leans a little closer to him, his voice low. “Asahi and Sapporo are Japanese, OB and CASS are Korean.”

He gives the man a glance, before nodding his thanks. How the hell Barton knows about his interest in international beers is a mystery, but with that in mind… “I’ll have CASS, then.”

Rogers is conferring with Romanoff, his voice low against her ear. She frowns, before pointing at the menu. He glances up to the waitress, his smile bright. “Ginseng tea with honey, please.”

“Iced coffee,” Barton finishes off their drink orders and the waitress leaves.

Rumlow frowns slightly. “So was ordering beer at the bar in poor taste or something?”

“No, nothing like that. They’re bringing sake, too, and it’s nice to have something to ease the taste. Also the iced coffee here is really good.” Barton grins, before leaning over and starting to flip through the song list. “Nat, you wanna do the usual for food?”

“Yeah, yeah. And I’ll put in my ear plugs when you decide that you can sing like Freddie Mercury.”

“I wouldn’t do him the disservice of pretending I can. That’s another one for your list, Steve. _ Bohemian Rhapsody _ by Queen.”

Rogers jots it down, stuffing the notebook back into his pocket. He turns to Rumlow, giving a smile. “So, how’d those after actions go?”

“Pierce ripped me up one side and down the other. S.T.R.I.K.E. doesn’t assign blame, but he sure as shit does. Are the Avengers hiring? Fury must be a better boss than Pierce.”

“He’s not,” Barton and Romanoff deadpan at the same time, making all four of them laugh.

“No work talk, no work talk. I’m jealous enough that the damn shrinks think I’m still too crazy for field work,” Barton demands as they settle, as their drinks are brought. He takes his coffee, taking a long swallow. “At least one of us has to have a hobby we can talk about outside of the job, right?”

“Well…” Romanoff turns to Rogers, her grin wicked. “Blondes? Or are you into brunettes? What about a girl with dyed hair?”

“Oh no…” Barton slumps over, leaning into Rumlow and sighing. “She’s trying to figure out Steve’s _ type _ to start setting him up on dates,” he explains.

Rumlow glances at Rogers, watching the way his cheeks flush pink. He pitches his voice low, almost positive that the super soldier will still be able to hear him. “You think he’s an ass man?”

Somehow, Barton doesn’t snort coffee out his nose, but it’s a close thing. He nudges Rumlow’s side lightly, huffing. “Absolutely. That is America’s Ass Man, right there.”

Eventually, they order food and start singing, aided by both Barton’s insistence that they actually use this room for what they’re paying for and Rogers’ determination to steer the conversation away from his love life. Rumlow sits back, drinking his beer and eating from the various plates of appetizers they’ve ordered to share. It’s different than being out with S.T.R.I.K.E., but he sort of likes it. Even Rogers isn’t as much of a sanctimonious prick as he’s privately expected the man to be. Off duty, away from being Captain America, he’s surprisingly at ease.

“Oh, god. _ Why_?!” Barton demands, reaching up and pulling his hearing aids out as another song starts. Romanoff grins, flipping him off before singing along, off-key and off time, to Britney Spears. Whether it’s the alcohol or just the opportunity to torture the rest of them, she’s clearly having fun.

The song winds down and Barton puts his hearing aids back in, huffing. “Just for that…” He flips through, picking a song and grabbing two mics, shoving one into Rumlow’s hands. “Come on. She can’t save herself.”

“Hey I’m not--” His protests are ignored as Barton hits play, words popping up on the screen. Before Rumlow can even register, he’s singing along, his voice mixing with Barton’s in their terrible cover of an otherwise great song. _ Carry On Wayward Son _ does not sound this mangled when he belts along with it in the truck, he swears.

By the time they’re done (that song is twice as long as he remembers it being, he swears) Romanoff has made an impressive arsenal of crumpled napkins that she and Rogers pelt the two of them with. Barton laughs, dropping the mics to the table and hiding himself partially behind Rumlow. “Okay, okay, I surrender!” He sighs, letting his head stay on the man’s shoulder. “Should probably call it a night anyways, you’ve got an early flight.”

They settle up for the room, drinks, and food, making their way outside. Rumlow pauses at his truck, watching the others go to their vehicles. An old motorcycle for Rogers, a zippy little sports car for Romanoff, and, to his surprise, the bus stop for Barton. “Hey, Clint! You need a ride?”

“Metro stops a few blocks from my place, I’ll be fine.”

“Get in the damn truck, Barton.” He hadn’t thought about it that morning, when he’d slipped out of bed and gone for a run, and Barton had been gone by the time he got back. There was no reason to check for the other man’s car in the predawn parking lot. “I’ll bring you to your place.”

“You really don’t have to.” The words don’t stop him from getting in the truck, however, tilting his head back against the headrest. “D.C.’s metro system is usually faster than driving.”

“Just tell me where to take you.”

They’re quiet except for Barton’s occasional instructions, both tired from the night out. Not to mention Rumlow’s lingering exhaustion from the Pakistan mission and whatever residual effects his psyche evaluation are having on Barton’s mind. He finally pulls into an apartment complex, parking the truck and shutting it off.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Barton starts before he can say anything, turning to face him. “That place out in the country. Fixing up a house. It’ll give me something to do, instead of rattling around here waiting for people to be available. _ Free time _ is sort of a foreign concept in our line of work.”

“You have a budget?”

“I have some money saved up and apparently there’s a S.H.I.E.L.D. stipend for those hurt in the line of duty that I qualify for. It’s just…” He sighs, looking down. “Nah.”

“Hey, if you wanna talk about it…”

“It feels like retirement, you know? Or like I’m letting myself be shuffled off to the side. Like I’m giving up on ever getting back to where I was. Every scrap of trust I’ve earned over the years just blew up in my face because I lost control of my own mind.” In the orange glow of the street lights, Barton’s face is harsh, the haunted look in his eyes amplified. “They think that I’ll turn on them again.”

“What do _ you _ think?”

He swallows thickly, shrugging. “I’d rather kill myself than go through that again. The whole mind control thing? Not a fan.”

Rumlow leans in, kisses him slow and gentle. “Give it a little time, Clint. Things are changing anyways. But I’ll make sure there’s a spot for you in S.H.I.E.L.D., no matter what form it takes in the future. One of the perks of my job is getting a say in the hiring process for S.T.R.I.K.E.” He strokes his hand down the side of Barton’s face, nodding.

The Omega leans into his touch, his eyes slipping closed. “Thanks. That actually… I… Just thanks, Brock. I’d better let you go home and get some sleep. I’ll see you soon?”

“Soon,” he agrees, one more chaste kiss between them before Barton lets himself out of the truck. He stops at the front door of the building, waving as he lets himself in.

Rumlow restarts the truck, his eyes on the road and his mind a million miles away as he drives back to his apartment. He’s earning Barton’s trust to flip the Avenger to Hydra. He can’t do that without also having Romanoff and Rogers trust him, at least a little bit. That’s all this is, part of a long term goal. His own feelings in this don’t matter… Although if he plays it right, Pierce will likely let him keep his Omega in Hydra’s new world order. If they’re bonded, Pierce will practically have to let them stay together.

It’s an act, he assures himself. It has to be, or his name will end up on the Insight list, alongside Barton, Romanoff, and Rogers.

* * *

Normally he doesn’t go out twice in a week, but Rollins catches up with him on Friday as he’s leaving, nudging his arm lightly. “Hey, Rumlow. Bar tomorrow night? Blackhawks are playin’.”

“You and your fuckin’ hockey…” He shrugs, spinning his keys in his hand. It’s not like he has plans for the weekend. Sleep, maybe go grocery shopping, see if Clint calls him. “Yeah, sure. Text me with the time.”

There’s no way he’s going grocery shopping on a Friday night. Ordering takeout--again--just sounds depressing, though. Rumlow rubs his temples, stopping at the corner store closest to his apartment. Essentials are all he needs, enough meals for the night and the next morning. He’ll go grocery shopping Saturday afternoon.

He tries not to look back at his time locked up in headquarters with envy, but it _ was _ simpler. He likes to cook, he likes to try new food and new flavors, but when he’s eating maybe four meals a week at his apartment, there’s not a lot of point in stocking up. His fridge is a college student’s mix of old half-eaten condiments, containers of leftover takeout, and scattered bottles of beer most of the time. He keeps a steady supply of pasta in the cupboards along with cans of soup and tuna fish, has a freezer with mostly ice and freezer burned remains of meals he made months ago. The only thing he regularly shops to refill is his liquor cabinet, which definitely speaks volumes about his vices.

Rumlow eats a cold deli sandwich standing up in the kitchen, trying in vain to make a reasonable grocery list. Almond milk lasts longer than dairy or soy, he’ll try that again. Maybe this time he won’t get yogurt before he’s halfway done with the carton. Fresh vegetables--he can get some of those, he’ll be here for dinner on Saturday and possibly Sunday.

He runs a finger along the bottles in the liquor cabinet, adding whiskey and rum both to his pathetically short grocery list, mostly just to bulk it out. It’s not his place to fantasize about it, but he can’t stop himself from imagining being out in the country, grilling steaks on the back porch of a rambling old farmhouse while Clint mixes up macaroni salad inside. Maybe with some kids running around in the yard, tossing a baseball or playing a little two man basketball on hard packed dirt. There’s no S.H.I.E.L.D., there’s no Hydra, there’s no Insight or Avengers or anything but the two of them, a ramshackle farmhouse they’ve rebuilt together room by room, and an endless summer afternoon where they’re just a family.

Fuck, he realizes, dropping onto the couch with a glass of whiskey he doesn’t quite remembering pouring. He’s got it bad.

He doesn’t have to dwell on it when he gets drunk and falls asleep, nor when he wakes up late and dry swallows two aspirin before going down to the same corner shop for a black coffee. Rumlow adds coffee to his grocery list, checks the cupboards, and puts on coffee filters as well. He checks his phone for both messages received and messages sent since the night before, telling himself that he’s only a little disappointed Clint hasn’t texted him. He’s definitely relieved that he didn’t send any texts while drunk.

At least going to the bar with Rollins will clear his head a bit. Hopefully. Rumlow shrugs on his battered Rangers jersey, a birthday gift from his second that was only half sincere. He really doesn’t give a shit about hockey, but antagonizing Rollins by cheering for the wrong team is worth a laugh. 

“The Rangers aren’t even playing tonight, you fucking animal,” Rollins greets him when he gets to the bar, pointing his beer bottle at him. “It’s the ‘Hawks and the Blues, Jesus fucking Christ.”

“I own one shirt that claims I know shit about hockey, I wore it to support you.” Rumlow grins, waving the waitress over and ordering a beer. He tips his head back, scanning the few other TVs in the room. No football, not even any baseball. Hockey, news, and apparently an infomercial. Well, at least the bar isn’t too crowded. That’ll change as the night goes on, the crowd getting younger, the music getting louder. It’s not his scene but he comes along when S.T.R.I.K.E. goes out. With just him and Rollins, they’ll be gone before things really heat up on a Saturday night. He’s too old for the crowd and Rollins is too intimidating. That’s fine, though. The loud music gives him a worse hangover than any alcohol.

Partway through the game, Rollins turns to him, taking a long drink from his beer. “So.”

“Oh, god. Don’t--”

“The _ rumor _ going around S.T.R.I.K.E. is that you’re bending over bitch for Rogers.”

“Rollins I will knock your fucking _ teeth _ out,” he grinds out, squeezing the beer bottle.

“But the much more _ interesting _ rumor is that you’re looking to become an Avenger. Gonna get some superhero spanx and a dumb nickname to go with it?” Rollins gives him a shit-eating grin, turning back to the game.

“Christ… Whose ass do I have to beat into line? Yours? Rogers needs to trust us, it’s not my fault if the goddamn idiots that work for me don’t get that. If he thinks something is up, he’ll start digging. Bad enough having Fury and Romanoff around, don’t need Captain fucking America thinking there’s a problem.” He takes a drink from his beer, sighing. “At least I took Barton out of the way.”

Rollins raises an eyebrow. “_You _ took Barton out of the way?”

Fuck, he hadn’t meant for that to slip. Well, he can trust Rollins. “Top secret assignment. Hawkeye’s an Omega, you know.” He smirks, sitting back in his chair. “Poor guy went into heat because medical took him off suppressors. Needed an Alpha there to take care of him and I got the privilege.” Pierce’s words echo in his mind, repeat in his voice. “Nothing ties an Omega down like a family. Imagine Rogers’ face when he learns one of his little hero team flipped to Hydra.”

“You knock him up?”

His heart lurches, but Rumlow pushes through it. “Barton’s a long con. Even in heat, he’s too paranoid to fall for the obvious. I’ve got plans, though. Keep him off S.H.I.E.L.D., as far away from what’s happening as possible. As out of the loop. Keep Romanoff and Rogers busy. Make’em all trust me, trust my intentions, and boom. Better than brainwashing.”

Rollins laughs, shaking his head slowly. “I woulda just pumped him full of enhancers and fucked him ‘til he couldn’t think about anything but my knot. But I guess that’s why you’re S.T.R.I.K.E. commander and not me.”

“That and people actually goddamn listen to me.” Rumlow laughs, toasting his beer lightly with Rollins’. “But hey, if this stays on track, I’ll be taking some paternity leave before the end of the year and you’ll have the chance to step up and prove yourself.”

“Hard to picture you as a family man, Rumlow.”

The wide, terrified eyes of those kids in Pakistan flash through his mind, there and gone in less than a second. Rumlow turns a shudder into a shrug. “Hey, we do what it takes to bring the world to order.”

Rollins nods slowly, turning back to the TV. “He’s on the list, isn’t he?”

“Priority elimination. But if I play this right, I’m sure Pierce will let me keep him.” Rumlow waves it off, keeping his tone nonchalant. “It’s a covert job, you know. Deep cover. Full authorization to do what’s needed. I’m not a spy like Romanoff, but I can play double agent well enough. I can get them to trust me. Just need S.T.R.I.K.E. to continue to fall in line. That’s your job. Keep their mouths shut.”

“Consider it done, sir.”

He turns back to the TV, putting his empty beer bottle on the edge of the table. One more and he’s done for the night. He’s been drinking too much lately. Overdue to go for a run again. And to the gym. He can’t let himself start slipping, not now when they’re so close to the end game.

* * *

It’s hard to say exactly when they switch from friends to something else. The handjobs during Barton’s heat make it a little more complicated, but if Rumlow has to put an exact date on it…

Rogers’ birthday comes to mind, when he gets invited along to New York with the rest of the Avengers like he belongs, when most all of them get good and drunk at dinner and are driven back to the tower Stark has been rebuilding to continue drinking. When Barton crawls into his lap and takes a shot before kissing him, sharing the burning alcohol and sweet softness of his tongue. When his hands settle on the Omega’s hips and pull him closer, their eyes locked together, their bodies flush. 

Maybe it’s then, or maybe it’s the next morning, hungover and cranky and somehow the first ones awake, when they drink black coffee together and then call one of Stark’s cars and he takes Barton to the deli he used to go to when he was a kid, treats him to bagels with lox and a slow, gentle kiss on a park bench.

“You regrettin’ it yet?” Rumlow asks softly, his thumb rubbing along the back of Barton’s neck, their bodies still close together on the bench. It’s summer, not cold in the least, but there’s a need for nearness that they’ve been building over the last month or so.

“Not a single minute.”

They walk back into the tower holding hands, both of them tensing for just a moment to see that others are up and moving. Romanoff gives a knowing smile over her cup of coffee, though no one else has much of a reaction. Maybe they misread the sloppy drunken make out session the night before as confirmation of some deeper relationship, not the quiet handholding of the morning.

He flies back to DC before the rest of them just in case S.T.R.I.K.E. has a job to do. Rumlow spends most of the flight forcing himself to remember that he’s just using Barton to further Hydra’s goals. That a soft morning kiss means the exact same as a sloppy make out: nothing.

* * *

His phone buzzes with an incoming call and he rolls over with a groan, looking at the screen. _Clint Barton_. Rumlow puts it on speaker instead of picking it up, burying his face in his pillow. “What.”

“Oh, shit, what time is it in DC?”

“2:45. In the morning.”

“Wait what? It’s 11:15 here.” Barton sighs over the line. “Sorry. I just--I forgot that Kabul was off by half an hour.”

“And eight hours ahead?” He turns towards his phone, wincing at the bright screen and burying his face in his pillow again. “Fuckin’... are you on a job?”

“Not officially. Listen, I’m gonna text you an address, I want you to go out and see it. I just figured in our line of work, a call first would be best. Oh, hang on.”

Rumlow listens to gunfire over the phone, Barton’s voice more distant, speaking to someone in what he thinks might be Farsi. No, wait, Kabul, Afghanistan. Dari? He sighs, turning over and squinting at the screen. “I’m gonna go back to bed. Just text me.”

“Tell me if you think I should buy the house ‘kay bye.”

He grabs his phone, muting it before the text can come in, rolling over and trying to get comfortable again.

It’s about a quarter after three when he sits up bolt upright on the couch. “House?”

* * *

It’s an absolute dump, and he tells Barton so via text before even getting out of his truck.

_ Take lots of pictures. And videos! _ The message flashes back immediately. Rumlow does a little mental math (plus that damn half hour) and tells Barton to go to bed. It’s past midnight there.

He turns his phone in his hands, turning on the camera and letting it lead him, narrating along the way.

“So this is the dump where Clint Barton is gonna hide my body when he decides he’s sick of me… Eighty acres--who needs that much land?--and about a four hour drive outside of DC. I had to take time off work for this, you asshole, I hope you’re happy.” He pans around what can be seen of the property, before centering on the house and letting out a low whistle. “If you don’t snatch this up some West Virginia cousin-marrying type is gonna use it to make meth, Barton. Can’t miss that opportunity.”

He circles around the wide front porch to the back, where it opens out into a yard, panning past broken windows and uneven wood planks. Fuck, Barton’s going to have to take this place down to the studs if he wants to make it safe to live in. The view out back is massive, empty space that used to be farmland, an old barn, weedy grasses as far as the eye can see. He tries the back door and it swings open with an ominous creak, prompting a laugh.

“You want to live in the setting of a horror movie. _ Virginia Chainsaw Massacre_, maybe? If I fucking die in here, you’re not getting any of my shit, Clint.” He picks his way inside, wincing at every creak and crack of the floorboards.

The house isn’t full of garbage, which is a plus, but he can hear scittering creatures in the walls. Mice if they’re lucky, raccoons if they’re not, rats if they’re _ really _ unlucky. Rumlow picks his way through what’s supposed to be the kitchen, cracked counter tops and cupboards with broken doors, no appliances present. To his right is a doorway to a half bathroom and a flight of stairs. Opposite the back door is another room that, after a cursory decision _ against _ climbing the rickety, uneven steps, he makes his way to. This is the side of the house he walked around to get to the back, which he supposes makes this room--square, empty, windows on two sides and an open doorway to the front entryway on the third--the dining room. “Who even has a dining room anymore? Eat-in kitchens are where it’s at according to your crappy TV shows.”

Entryway and another flight of stairs leading up, these ones looking much less hazardous. He pans the camera to the living room, glancing down. “This place has shag carpeting. Absolutely unforgivable.” There’s a crumbling fireplace at the far end, something he knows will have to come down. The missing bricks just scream ‘fire hazard.’

Carefully, too aware of how isolated he is out here, Rumlow climbs the stairs. There’s a large bathroom to the right of the landing, a hallway with two doors off it that dead-ends at a small window. He frowns as he looks around. “Okay so… Wow, this place was built just to fuck with me, I guess? There’s another flight of stairs out back in the kitchen that I’m _ not _ climbing, fuck you very much, but I guess that’s where the third bedroom and second bathroom are. Honestly, Clint, this place is a disaster waiting to happen. I mean…” He moves carefully into one of the bedrooms, pans the camera out the window to the empty land visible outside. Not a building or person in sight. “Look at all that peace and serenity and shit. All it’s gonna do is make you calm down and forget the constant thrill of nearly dying every other week.” He flips the camera on his phone, lets the screen take in his grin. “If you don’t buy this shit hole, _ I’m _ tempted to, Barton.”

Rumlow picks his way back downstairs and outside with the camera off, breathing deep the smell of honeysuckle from the plant making an effort to climb the side of the house. His stomach warms with the memory of a dream, his mind’s eye overlaying the house with repairs, with personal items and memories in every nook and cranny, with laughter and the sound of little feet pounding down the stairs, the door slamming open then closed as kids run to him on the front porch and cling to his legs, with a deeper laugh, husky in his ear, as hands squeeze his hips and Barton whispers in his ear _ “Welcome home.” _

He opens his text thread with Barton, typing as he walks back to his truck.

> _ It’s perfect. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My obsessive need to research dumb minutiae snuck into this chapter--the karaoke bar that everyone goes to actually exists, and the items ordered are actually on their menu.


	7. Can't Stop ('Til The Whole World Knows My Name)

He keeps waiting for the moment that doesn’t come, until, two months after that week spent locked up in Residential, Rumlow decides to ask. They’re at Barton’s place only because it’s a little larger than his, the fridge a little more well-stocked. Less beer, no liquor. He’s been back from his not-officially-a-job in Kabul for twelve hours and Rumlow’s been over there for two. Not even doing anything, just sitting on the couch, TV low in the background, dishes piled in the sink, and soaking up each other’s presence. Rumlow strokes a hand through Barton’s hair, kissing the top of his head lightly, and asks, “hey, did they put you back on suppressors?”

Barton shifts, head tilting up to watch his face. “Yeah.” Something flashes in his eyes, there and gone in a blink. Rumlow takes another swallow from his beer bottle. Cheap, domestic stuff, but it’s fine.

That Barton is lying to him isn’t fine. He’s seen the Omega’s medical records, he knows for a fact that S.H.I.E.L.D. took him off suppressors--hell, he’s the one that recommended it. Which means that he’s getting them from somewhere else. Which means suspicions. About Rumlow, maybe not, but about S.H.I.E.L.D… He pushes the thoughts away, smiles and kisses him slow and gentle. “So that means you can’t get pregnant if we…”

“You have a filthy mind.” Not like Barton isn’t in agreement with the sentiment. He moves around on the couch, from sitting next to Rumlow and leaning on him to fully sitting on the Alpha’s lap, his thighs spreading to either side of the man’s hips. “And surprising patience. I’ve only been hinting for you to fuck me for six weeks.”

They kiss, slow and gentle, hands running over each other. Rumlow bites down on Barton’s lower lip, sucking it lightly before letting him go. “Have you? I hadn’t noticed. Better detail every,” he plants a kiss against the man’s chin, “single,” a kiss to his throat, drawing out a low moan, “instance,” he finishes with a final kiss right between Barton’s collar bones, teeth nipping the soft skin lightly.

“You want those most to least obvious or chronological?”

“Surprise me.” His hands snake up Barton’s sides, pushing under his t-shirt. They’re both too dressed for how warm the room suddenly is. Barton shrugs off the flannel he’s wearing over top, raises his arms so Rumlow can push his t-shirt up and off, too.

“Steve’s birthday party, where I was practically dry humping you on the couch in front of everyone.” His dick twitches in his pants at the blurry memory. “The first time I came over to your place and took my pants off before getting into bed with you.” Barton strokes his hands through Rumlow’s hair, guiding his head down across his chest. “Mm…. when I called you in the middle of the night and left that really nasty voicemail, asking you to come over and fuck me.”

That makes him sit up, his eyebrows raising. “I don’t remember that voicemail.”

“That’s because your mailbox is full, which I realized in the morning when I called to apologize for my drunk shenanigans.” Barton laughs a little, kissing him again. “Definitely jerked off while I thought I was leaving you that message, though. Told you all about it.”

“Remind me to clean out my mailbox when we’re done.”

“Fuck you, cuddle me when we’re done. Clean your mailbox tomorrow at work.” His hips roll down, back arching as they press together. “Okay… how about that time after karaoke when I was waiting for you to ask if you could come in after you so kindly drove me home?”

“Shit, Clint… You gotta be more obvious. I’m a dumbass, apparently.” Rumlow’s fingers trail down his back, easing into the back of his jeans. His skin is warm, flushing pinker and pinker as the kisses and bites become more intense, more likely to leave marks. “In my defense, I thought I was being respectful. Building a relationship outside of being the guy who gave you a few handjobs.”

Barton laughs, the sound turning high and breathless as Rumlow picks him up. He wraps himself around the Alpha, holding on tight when they move to the bedroom. “I appreciate it. And I didn’t tell you I went back on suppressors, so… You would have thought you were taking a risk.” He grunts as he’s dropped to the bed, his arms reaching up needily. “Shirt off, Brock, let me get a good look at you.”

Bossy little Omega. Still, he takes a step back from the bed, teasing up the hem of his t-shirt, watching Barton’s pupils dilate even further in the dim room, hearing his breathing hitch and speed up. He grins, pulling his shirt slowly up and over his head, tossing it aside before making a slow turn for Barton. The man licks his lips when Rumlow faces him again, head tilting back invitingly. “You like what you see?”

“More every time.”

He goes to the bed to catch Barton’s lips in a slow kiss, leaning over him, bracing himself on his hands. Fingers trail down his chest and over his stomach before moving to his back, up his spine and across his shoulders. He can feel the slow trace against his scars, the deeper press into his scattered tattoos. Rumlow groans, leaning down to bury his face into Barton’s neck again, sucking more bruises into his skin.

“What do they mean?”

“Nothing for some, lots of things for others. Pick one.” The fingers dig into his back, just under where the collar of his t-shirt would lie, and he closes his eyes, breathing slowly. “Pick a different one.”

“Brock.”

“It’s a skull, Clint, pick a different one.” He’s not in the mood to make up a story. Goddamn the stupid S.T.R.I.K.E. idea to get matching tattoos, and especially goddamn whoever decided that the Hydra skull would be a great look. At least they’d opted against the tentacles to complete the logo. And he’d been smart enough to put it somewhere clothes would cover.

The fingers that move over his skin are slower, more methodical. Barton touches on a number of marks, dark ink in his skin and scars, before settling low, ghosting against his hip. There’s a mark like teeth there, rounded, with little white lines arcing out from it like lightning bolts. A scar, not a tattoo.

“What happened?”

“Weapons testing. The stun batons used to be an always on weapon, until mine slipped out of its holster and damn near knocked me out. Left a hell of a scar, huh?” He smiles crookedly, holding himself up on his knees and one arm, guiding Barton’s hand a little lower over his denim-clad thigh. “The other end of the circuit is down here.”

“Can I see?” He’s still breathing hard, his eyes locked on where their hands are pressed to Rumlow’s thigh.

“Sounds like an excuse to get my pants off.”

He laughs, gaze darting up to meet him, tongue flicking out over his lips. “It is.”

Rumlow sits up long enough to unbutton his jeans, one eyebrow raising invitingly. “Well?” Barton furrows his eyebrows for a second, before reaching out, slowly pushing his jeans and briefs down. The Alpha lets out a low hiss of breath and Barton’s eyes flash to Rumlow’s cock before looking away. Somehow, he manages to get his pants down enough to see the other end of the scar, another circle with lines arcing out of it. Shaking fingers touch the marks, trailing down and then back up between them.

“Did it hurt?”

“Yeah, it fuckin’ hurt. But…” But after he’d threatened to cram the still sparking stun rod up the tech’s ass, they’d developed an on/off switch for it and things had been fine. Order had come from his pain. It was worth it. “But better me than one of my guys. And now they have an off button.”

Barton’s hands on his hips draw him up until his knees are on either side of the man’s chest, his jeans kicked impatiently off his ankles. Rumlow holds his breath, fingers curling into short brown hair as the Omega leans in, presses a slow kiss against the higher mark. His tongue trails along Rumlow’s skin, down until he presses another kiss to the lower mark. “I wanna kiss all your scars, Brock. Smother all your pain with good memories.”

His fingers stroke through Barton’s hair, scratching his scalp lightly. “I have a lot of scars.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Clint…” _ I have to tell him_, the thought lurches into his head and he goes still, holds his breath. Waits for the rest of the thought to surface. _ I love him. _

That’s not part of the plan. That’s not part of _ Hydra’s _ plan. Love is messy and complicated and changes everything. Love is pain without order, giving up self entirely for another person. There’s no place for love in Hydra’s world.

He _ can’t _ love Clint Barton.

His hammering heart disagrees.

Rumlow guides him up, kisses him fierce, pushing all the confusion and conflict out of his head and into Barton’s mouth. He trails his hands down the Omega’s torso, working his jeans off and tossing them aside. He doesn’t dare speak, not right now. He doesn’t know what words will come out of his mouth.

They lie down together slowly, shifting on the bed until Barton is propped against the pillows. He reaches over to the nightstand, rummaging in the drawer and pulling out two items to toss to Rumlow. Lube and condoms.

“Lube? I know you’re not in heat anymore, but--”

“It’s the suppressors.” Barton looks away for a moment and Rumlow clocks another lie. “They make it harder to get wet. Just use it, okay?”

“Hey…” He leans in, kissing the Omega slowly. “Of course. Even if that wasn’t the case, you want lube, we use lube.” His hands slide down Barton’s sides and over his hips, curling on the inside of his thighs and opening them slowly. “You just tell me what you want, Clint.”

Barton moans softly, his back arching, giving better access. One prodding finger finds him bone dry, like he said, but his cock is hard, the head bright red, starting to turn purple. Rumlow takes a moment to slick his fingers, one pressing into the Omega and slipping inside him. He crooks the digit slightly, dragging it down and drawing a moan from Barton.

Taking his time, making it last, Rumlow prepares him. He might get slick at some point, three fingers easily gliding in and out of him, but it’s not like the Alpha is watching for it. He’s too busy watching the rest of Barton’s body, the unsteady rise and fall of his chest, the flush of arousal taking over his upper torso, the curl of his fingers in the sheets. He meets Barton’s eyes and grins, leaning in to kiss him again. He can’t get enough of that mouth of his.

“You gonna fuck me or just tease me all night?” Barton murmurs into the side of his head as Rumlow leaves another string of biting kisses on his neck. His hips wiggle down on the Alpha’s fingers, a keening whine pulling out of the back of his throat.

“Don’t tempt me to.” Despite the words, he draws his fingers out, sits back long enough to slide on a condom and lube it up. His knot has been swelling as they’ve laid in bed, his own body impatient for the feeling of being inside Barton. 

Rumlow keeps his eyes on his Omega’s as he lines up, pushing in slowly, gently. Barton whines softly, hands turning into claws against Rumlow’s shoulders, but he grinds his hips down to meet every minute inward thrust. Finally, only his knot rests outside the hole, the rest of his length encased in tight, squeezing warmth. Rumlow groans, pulling Barton closer, into another sloppy kiss.

Somehow, they take it slow. They both clearly want more, but Rumlow thrusts gently and Barton rocks his hips to meet them in an almost lazy rhythm. When his knot breaches Barton’s hole, he squeezes his eyes shut, biting down on his Omega’s shoulder and muffling the scream that wants to pass his lips.

“Touch me, fuck, Brock, please--” The rambling words take too long to make sense in his mind and he groans, reaching between them. One hand grasps Barton’s thigh, the other wrapping around his throbbing cock and stroking him quickly. “Oh, fuck, yeah, like--like that, Brock, fuck…” His voice climbs, louder and higher, breath hitching between words. Rumlow gives one more small thrust of his hips, seats his knot fully inside of Barton’s ass.

His head whips back, eyes wide and unseeing, throat working with the effort to just breath as he cums. It’s amazing, the pressure on him, the squeeze, so much better than anything he’s felt before from his own hand or Barton’s hand or anything ever, how he’s supposed to _ live _ after feeling this--

And then it gets better, Barton shuddering through an orgasm against him, his muscles clamping impossibly tighter. Rumlow is locked inside him, held by that delicious grasp of muscle, fitted so perfectly within that he wonders for a moment if fate really does exist.

Slowly, carefully, he rolls onto his back, lets Barton drop to lie against his chest. They’re still tied together, his knot no where near going down, both of them breathing raggedly with post-orgasm exhaustion.

“Fuck,” Rumlow whispers, realizing too late that he’s gripping Barton’s thigh bruisingly tight. He eases up, cups the other man’s chin instead and kisses him gently. “Fuck…”

“Worth the wait,” Barton croaks out, pulling away enough to bury his face in Rumlow’s neck. He plants small, lazy kisses against the skin, soothing his racing pulse with each brush of lips.

By the time he finally goes down enough to slip out, they’re both almost asleep. Rumlow rolls over slowly, gets out of bed long enough to toss the condom in the trash, to bring back a warm washcloth and clean Barton up. He tosses the washcloth into the hamper, curling into bed with his arms around Barton and covering them both with the sheet.

Rumlow’s lips press to the back of Barton’s neck, ghosting over his bonding gland. He could… He wants to… He should…

There are too many things to think about, too many ways his plans have suddenly changed. He can’t make a rash decision.

* * *

“Oh hey, so I bought that house.”

Rumlow looks up from the couch, his fingers stilling on the laces of his combat boots. He has half an hour to drive the forty-five minutes to the Triskelion. “The death trap in bumfuck nowhere that you sent me to?”

“Yeah. You liked it, too, right?” Barton takes a sip of his coffee, leaning on the kitchen counter.

“Clint it’s gonna have to go down to the studs. You’d probably be better off knocking the whole thing down to _ foundation _ and building a new house.”

He hums, stepping around the counter, kissing Rumlow’s forehead gently. “I’m gonna fix it up real nice, though. You can come help on your days off.” He smiles, his fingers trailing through Rumlow’s hair, still damp from his shower. “Fury helped me buy it under an assumed name. It’s not on S.H.I.E.L.D. records, so they can’t come get us if we don’t answer our phones.”

He turns into Barton’s hand, kissing his palm briefly. “Cell service out there is probably terrible.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s awful. Straight to voicemail every time, and whoops, you forgot to clean out your mailbox after the awesome night we had.” Barton’s grin is devilish, his eyebrows waggling.

Rumlow stands up into his space, arms wrapping around his torso. He kisses him gently, pressing their foreheads together. “When are you going out to see your newly acquired death trap?”

“This weekend. You’re coming with me, right?”

“Of course.” He kisses Barton again, quick this time. “I have to see the look on your face when you realize pictures don’t do justice to how terrible it is.”

With a laugh at Barton’s indignant huffing, Rumlow grabs the travel mug of coffee off the counter and lets himself out. His steps are light as he heads into the Triskelion and up to his office, his mouth pulling into an easy smile that leaves more people scurrying out of his way than his usual glare does lately.

So he’s enjoying himself. Sue him.

The good mood lasts right up until he logs in and sees a request to report to Pierce. Rumlow closes his eyes for a moment, exhaling slowly. There are a number of things this could be, from building security to personnel escort to getting ripped a new one for something he or his team did. It could be a promotion, a demotion, a new assignment… He can’t dwell on it, he can’t dwell on how it fills him with the same dread as getting called to the principal’s office did as an unruly kid.

Rumlow checks the rest of his messages before heading upstairs, stopping outside Pierce’s office and waiting to be buzzed in. The secretary gives him a little smile and a nod, lightly tapping the pin on his lapel. Hydra business. That rules out a number of things.

“Secure office, permissions Pierce, Alexander G. and Rumlow, Brock,” Pierce orders as soon as he steps inside. The AI confirms it quietly, the interior windows going black, the exteriors dimming significantly. Pierce stays seated behind his desk and Rumlow walks up to him, settles into a parade rest in front of it. “I have an assignment for you.”

“Sir.”

“How is your job with Barton going?”

Rumlow takes a slow inhale, choosing his words carefully. “I have his trust. None of the other Avengers are suspicious. Fury hasn’t questioned me about it. No one in S.T.R.I.K.E. has voiced concerns about our… relations.”

“Do I need to remind you how to give a full status report, Commander?”

“No, sir.” He swallows, forcing himself to speak. “I had sex with him last night, but he insisted on using protection. I’ll continue to work on him as long as it’s necessary.”

Pierce frowns, tapping his fingers on his desk. “He _ insisted_? I’m sorry, is he the Alpha in this arrangement, or are you? An Omega can _ ask _ for whatever petty things they want, but it’s an Alpha’s job--it’s _ your _ job--to tell the little breeder bitches what’s best for them. The next time, you knot him and tell him it’s what’s best for him.”

Years of military training following years of quick fists for smart comments are the only things that keep his mouth shut. Rumlow exhales a measured breath, nodding. “Yes, sir.”

“Now,” Pierce moves on and he relaxes just a fraction. “I have a special delivery coming in from our field office in Moscow. The Soviets gave us a little present in the 80s, under the restriction that it remain stationed on Soviet soil for 30 years. Well, the time is up and obviously, there are no Soviets around to decide to revoke this gift.” He nods to a file on the desk and Rumlow picks it up, opening it slowly. The stamp of “КОНФИДЕНЦИАЛЬНО” across the front might not be in English, but he can still guess at it. Top Secret, Confidential, Certain Eyes Only And Probably Not Yours. Inside is more Russian, typed reports with handwritten notes in the margins. Much more interesting are the pictures clipped to the inside cover of the file, two of them.

One is a small snapshot, 1940s, service enlistment photograph of a handsome young man whose stoic face can’t quite hide the spark of joy in his eyes.

Much bigger, more eye-catching, is the full color 8”-by-10”, showing a man with long, ragged dark hair, his eyes wide with panic. There’s fuzzing around the edges of the photograph, white mist, and Rumlow frowns.

“Sir?”

“That smaller image is of James Buchanan Barnes, Sergeant in the 107th Infantry Division. Died in the line of duty in 1945, shortly before his best friend Steve Rogers--Captain America--went into the ice. The bigger image, though… That’s much more interesting. How much do you know about the Winter Soldier?”

Rumlow closes his eyes for a moment, absorbing the information, assigning it priority for later assessment and then pushing it aside. “Soviet ghost story. Claimed credit for almost every major political assassination in the second half of the 20th century. Kennedy, Stark, the list goes on. He’s one of ours?”

Pierce sits back, nodding slowly. “The world can have its wars; hot and cold, great and terrible. Hydra has order. Hydra has control. Zola’s nearly finished his algorithm and soon we’ll be prepared to launch the Insight helicarriers. S.H.I.E.L.D.’s security blanket for the world… And Hydra’s much more efficient way to eliminate our threats. One man can do a lot to shape a century, but an organization like Hydra can shape a millennium.”

Bring order to the chaos. That he can see. That outcome, that end goal… Rumlow nods slowly. “Hail Hydra.”

“Until Insight has launched, I want Hydra’s perfect soldier near at hand. You’ll be escorting it from Moscow to DC... and cleaning up the science team that's been working with it. Can't have any loose ends wandering around. Covert escort, so we can’t exactly stuff it into the cargo bay of a plane, unfortunately. The team will take it out of cryo-storage in Moscow and you’ll accompany it to the new facility here. Dispose of the Moscow team as you see fit. Use the asset, if you like. Your flight leaves tomorrow morning. Inform your second that he’ll be taking charge of S.T.R.I.K.E. for the week. That’s all he needs to know.”

Rumlow snaps off a quick salute. “Yes, sir.” He turns when Pierces waves him off, leaving the office and making his way to the elevator. Eyes ahead. Posture formal.

When the doors close he leans against the far wall for a minute, breathing slowly. The AI prompts him for a destination and Rumlow forces himself to stand up, to remember that someone is always watching. “S.T.R.I.K.E. Command.”

_ “Confirmed.” _

He’ll tell Rollins to take over the team while he’s on assignment. He’ll tell Barton that he has to escort some S.H.I.E.L.D. scientists from the field office in Moscow. That’s half true.

He won’t tell Rogers shit.

Romanoff would be the best person to ask for quick Russian lessons, but he’s not going to inform her of any of this, either. She might not completely distrust him, but she’s a spy first and a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent second. Abruptly changing his routine will put her wind up.

He texts Barton once he’s back in his office, trying to convey ease with just words.

> _ Got an out of town assignment. Escort mission for some scientists. Moscow to DC, should take a week, I leave tomorrow morning. Dinner tonight? _

There’s not an immediate answer, but that doesn’t exactly worry him. Rumlow leaves his phone on his desk and goes to find Rollins, gives him the basics.

“If you need an extra for a mission, pull Parsons from Bravo. I’ve been reviewing his field performance record and he seems like he has potential,” Rumlow adds, leaning against the locker as Rollins cleans his handgun. “And remember, Rogers is in charge if he’s on the job.”

“Yes, sir. You really think Parsons is a good candidate?”

He shrugs, picking up a clip from the bench next to Rollins and unloading it, counting bullets. Old habits. “He’s seen the worst of it and come out on the other side with purpose. His field assessments have always been above average and his psyche evaluations haven’t raised concerns, even after Loki. If you have the opportunity to test him while I’m gone, take it. Otherwise I’ll make an opportunity when I get back.”

Rollins nods shortly. “Understood.” He assembles his handgun, pulling back the slide until it locks. “So…”

“I know that tone and I don’t appreciate it, Jack.” Rumlow huffs, reloading the clip with efficient movements. “We’re… dating. Going out to dinner or for drinks, sometimes with friends. His friends. Sometimes we just stay at one of our apartment’s. Most nights we don’t actually see each other. This isn’t grade school, we don’t need to be together 24/7 to be _ together _ and we’re both busy.”

“I asked for none of that information, Brock.” Rollins grins at him, nudging his hip lightly. “When are you going to bring your _ boyfriend _ out to the bar with S.T.R.I.K.E., huh?”

“When I can be sure you won’t all act like a bunch of childish knotheads over him. So, never.” He shoves his second in command, huffing. “Come on, enough with the locker room talk. I’ll see you next week. Don’t get the whole team killed while I’m gone.”

He heads back to his office, his mind on the preparations for an out of contact assignment. There’s not a lot of lead time, but he’s gotten more done with less. He’ll be able to research his escort once he’s in Moscow, there’s no way he’s risking it in the Triskelion.

Rumlow glances at his phone when he goes for lunch, remembering the text he sent Barton. He unlocks it, the text thread opening up immediately. Barton answered him, five minutes after he sent the message and walked away.

> _ K._

* * *

His go bag is ready, everything at S.H.I.E.L.D. taken care of. He’s more than ready to get to the airport for his 8am flight.

Rumlow glances at his phone again, the message sitting on _ Read _ with no response. Asking Barton when and where he wanted to grab dinner. He shakes the device impatiently, giving up and typing again. He’s too old for this grade school bullshit.

> _ I’m gonna order pizza. Come over if you want some. _

It blinks from _ Pending _ to _ Delivered _ to _ Read _ and to his surprise, the typing indicator pops up in the other field.

> _ Be there in 30. NO MUSHROOMS. _

Rumlow snorts, calling up the pizza place and ordering. No mushrooms, fine. 

_ “An Omega can _ ask _ for whatever petty things they want, but it’s an Alpha’s job--it’s _ your _ job--to tell the little breeder bitches what’s best for them.” _ Pierce’s words from earlier echo in his head and Rumlow shakes them out. That’s old school Hydra, back when they were under a different corrupt political regime. He gets it, in a way, the order of the world, but… On that front, he quietly dissents. He’s fought alongside and against Alphas, Betas, and Omegas--they all bleed the same. When they’re staring down the barrel of a gun, they all find the same will to live. Phenotype has nothing to do with it.

Barton lets the delivery guy in with him, settles the pizzas on the counter and takes the beer Rumlow offers him. He takes a long drink, sighing and leaning on the counter. “I’m being a bitch.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You have work, I shouldn’t be throwing a hissy because S.H.I.E.L.D. got in the way of us going to the house this weekend.”

Rumlow nearly drops his beer bottle, cursing softly. “_Fuck_. Clint, I forgot all about that--listen, I’m sorry. I can’t exactly turn down an order, you know?” He steps closer, brushing his hand against Barton’s cheek. “I’ll let you know the minute I’m back, okay? It won’t be this weekend, but if we wanna go there together, we can go when I get back from Moscow.”

The Omega leans into him, closing his eyes and letting out a little laugh. “It’s not even the mission that bothers me, that’s just… I’d do the same thing. Prioritize the job above everything else. But I’m stuck sitting around with nothing to do unless one of the three people I know decides to call me and… I’m not built for that.”

Rumlow moves them carefully to the couch, pulling Barton into his lap and holding him tight. He kisses his neck gently, humming in agreement. “You’ll be back on duty soon. I’m sure of it.” He’s actually sure of the opposite, there’s no way they can risk putting Barton back into the field, but he keeps his mouth shut. If he really had it his way, Barton would be on a job right now. As far away from Insight as possible. Like Japan.

“Yeah… Maybe.” He buries his face into the Alpha’s neck, breathing slowly. “Not to be a sap, but do you have a hoodie or something I can steal for while you’re gone? I sleep better with your scent nearby.”

“You’re absolutely a sap. I’ll get you something.” He strokes a hand up and down Barton’s back, holding him a little tighter. “No one’s supposed to know where I am or what I’m doing, so… Keep it between us, okay? It’s one of those super classified things.” Romanoff might put the pieces together. Or go looking for more of them. Ask too many questions. And if she gets suspicious and brings it to Fury, the whole thing will come crashing down on their heads.

“Ooh, a secret mission, huh?” Barton perks up a little, sitting up enough to place a quick kiss on his lips. “I better not ask any questions, then, I’d hate for a bad guy to find out that I know and kidnap me and torture me for information.”

Rumlow lets his hands tighten on Barton’s hips, laughing softly. “You’re the one that runs around in superhero spanx, _ Hawkeye_. If anything I should be worried about getting kidnapped and tortured for information.” He slides his hands up, pushing Barton’s shirt with them. “They’ll tie me to a chair and hook a car battery up to my nipples, threaten to turn it on if I don’t reveal your weakness.”

“You sound like you’re into that.”

He shrugs and Barton laughs, smacking his cheek teasingly. “Pizza first. Kinky bondage later,” the Omega declares, freeing himself and going to load two plates with pizza slices. He settles back onto the couch, leaning into Rumlow and eating his pizza. “How early do you leave?”

“Flight’s at 8, so I should get outta here at about 4.”

“Guess we shouldn’t keep each other up half the night, then.”

He takes a swallow of beer, shrugging. “Depends on what you had in mind for keeping us up, really. It’s a ten hour flight. Civilian transport. I think they even have me in coach.”

“I am so sorry.” Barton kisses his cheek in apology, grinning widely. “I once had a Sydney to New York trip in coach, so I can feel your pain. Truly.”

“What were you doing in Sydney?”

Barton shrugs, balancing his plate on his lap and taking a drink. “A job. I think I was shutting down an arms deal. They kinda blur together after a while. You need a coffee table.”

“If I get a coffee table, I won’t be able to fold the bed out and we’ll end up sleeping on the floor.”

“I have slept in less comfortable places.”

Rumlow snorts. “I bet. Didn’t you used to curl up in the rafters of the lobby and take a nap when you first started?”

“No one was ever able to prove that I was sleeping and not watching the exit. How do you even remember that, it was like a decade ago.”

“I’m an old man, remember? Army when I was 18, got out of that at 25, rambled around until S.H.I.E.L.D. found me, I’ve been with them for the last 20. Working my way up the ladder from a grunt all the way to S.T.R.I.K.E. Commander.” He takes a drink, closing his eyes. “I remember when you started, kid. I remember people whisperin’ not to trust you.”

Barton swallows, looking down. “For good reason.”

Rumlow strokes his hair, kissing his temple gently. “What were you before?”

He’s quiet, quiet for so long Rumlow starts to think he’s not going to answer. Barton stands up, takes their empty plates and bottles into the kitchen, puts away the pizza box and comes back with two fresh beers. “I was a killer. An assassin. I didn’t care who I killed, as long as I got paid for it. I was a circus performer. I was a scared kid with no one but my older brother to look out for me in a world that seemed ready to dump all its cruelty on us. It’s not what I was before that made people not trust me, S.H.I.E.L.D. has hired plenty of killers and put them on pedestals. Look at S.T.R.I.K.E.” That’s true enough, while he has a military background, S.T.R.I.K.E. criteria is based on competence. Cops, criminals, military, and murderers have all worn the green and gold patch while Rumlow’s been on the team. “But most of them stop being that once S.H.I.E.L.D. gets them trained, you know? I… I mean, it wasn’t like I went around killing my teams. But people around me… They end up dead a lot, Brock. Maybe I’m just unlucky like that. Some of it was that I was still working in a solo mindset, but a lot of it was just… I didn’t have anything to live for. I took a lot of stupid risks that cost other people everything before I got my head on straight.”

Barton shrugs crookedly, glancing at him from the corner of his eye. “I thought it stopped, but then everything with Loki… And Phil… Agent Coulson…”

“Those things weren’t your fault, Clint.”

“Sure feels like it when they won’t let me back into the field.” He sighs, curling a little closer. “I’m just… be safe out there, okay? I don’t like the idea of losing someone else.”

Rumlow wraps his arms around him, nodding. “I’ll be safe. You and Agent Coulson worked together a lot?”

“Right up until the end. I was there in New Mexico, you know, when Thor first showed up. After Selvig got recruited, they had me watching over the Tesseract… and we all know how that ended.”

They settle into silence as the apartment flames orange with sunset, Rumlow’s fingers slowly rubbing up and down the side of Barton’s neck. He leans in close, voice low in his ear. “You’re not gonna lose me, Clint. I promise.”

It takes more effort than either of them want to exert, but they strip down to almost nothing in the summer heat and pull the couch out eventually. It’s still too early to sleep, maybe. They can at least lie in the dark and wait for Rumlow’s alarm clock.

He curls his arms around Barton, kissing the back of his neck gently. Fingers trace his hand in the dark, both of them breathing slowly. “Hey, Brock…”

“Mm?”

“It’s home for you, too. Just… Just in case that wasn’t obvious.”

He burrows his face into Barton’s back, letting him feel the nod. “We’ll make it ours.”


	8. (Scream Forever) We Are The Poisoned Youth

Rumlow reads the documents about the Winter Soldier while the plane cruises at 35000 feet over the Atlantic. They’ve been translated, thank god, notes going all the way back to when Zola was hiding out with the last of the Nazis. The Soviets got their hands on him next, Hydra moving from one corrupt regime to the next with ease. While Zola’s men perfected the physical enhancements and took care of the lingering humanity in his mind, the Soviets turned him into a true weapon of terror. He has to suppress a shiver of horror just thinking about it.

He also listens to audio of training sessions, familiarizes himself with the Russian trigger words and their meanings, with the sound of the Soldier’s voice in different contexts. There’s days worth of tape, but he chooses carefully, sitting on the plane surrounded by happy summer tourists, his face carefully neutral. He’s on the clock, which means no drinking, or he’d take the smiling flight attendant up on her offer of free booze for transatlantic flights.

Clicking idly, he comes across a file that stands out from the others. It’s short, but the title catches his eye.

> _ Mission Report 19 September 1970 - FAILURE _

A failure in the Soldier’s perfect record? Rumlow clicks it, settling back to listen, reading along with the provided transcript.

_ “Mission Report.” _

_ “Where am I?” _

_ “Mission Report. Now.” _

_ “Wh-what’s going on? Who are you? Where am I?!” _

_ “Sir, heart monitor is spiking--” _

_ “He’s going into cardiac--” _

_ “Where am I?! What is this?! Steve? St--” _

The rest of it trails off to static with the high whine of a flatlining heart monitor in the background. Rumlow frowns, tapping back and replaying the file. All other instances of the Soldier’s voice have been emotionless, but there’s such panic in those words, such absolute fear… He skims through the medical records, finds September 1970. Sure enough, he was taken out of cryo weeks before for a mission. They wiped him and refroze him after the failure. Digging through mission records, he can’t find anything for September 1970.

He jots that down on a notepad to look into later, closing his laptop and sitting back. Everything about the Winter Soldier says that this escort mission will be harder than it sounds… Getting him to behave like a person long enough to move to DC is a lot closer to the edge than Rumlow normally plays it. But every success is a step up for him, is proof that he can bring order to the chaos of the world.

It’s early the next morning when he gets to Moscow and Rumlow groans softly, tapping his watch to match local time, the second set of hands ghosting beneath it for DC time. He’s incommunicado for this assignment, it really doesn’t matter what time it is in DC, but it’ll help his sleep schedule to have both. 

There’s a car waiting for him and a driver to load his go bag into the trunk. The man moves efficiently, doesn’t waste time speaking pleasantries, and Rumlow’s more than a little grateful for that.

“The team is moving the asset from storage later today, sir. Would you like to be there for the process?”

“Yes. I’m going to try to get a little sleep lying down, but send someone to get me before you begin.”

“Understood, sir.”

He doesn’t exactly sleep, in the little suite--not much more than a hotel room, really--on base that he’s provided. For one thing, he’s not built to sleep when the sun is climbing higher and higher into the sky and for another he’s… anxious. Rumlow figured he’d have a day or two to discuss this with the science team, to be part of the exact plan, but if they’re taking the asset out of storage already, then they must have made all the decisions without him.

Not his favorite situation to be walking into.

Still, he’s up and dressed when there’s a knock on his door, follows the grunt sent to get him down to the bowels of the facility. It’s S.H.I.E.L.D., one of their outreach compounds, but the Moscow base has always been a pet project of Hydra’s. Politicians can spout on about how they achieved peace and an end to the Cold War with their diplomacy, can sweep their dirty ideological wars in southeast Asia and the middle east under the rug as someone else’s policy, but one look at this base tells the truth. Without Hydra, without their intervention into the bureaucratic structures on every feasible level, war would continue endlessly.

The line between order and chaos is a razor’s edge that the world has been dancing on for close to a century.

Hydra is the only force strong enough to tip the balance.

Rumlow looks around the room as he enters, taking in the monitors and medical equipment, the massive chair in the middle of the room. A scientist steps up beside him, offering a short nod. “Agent Rumlow?”

He nods back, stopping his assessment of the room and turning to her. No one down here is armed except for him, and he’d had to pull rank at the last three checkpoints to keep his handgun and boot knife.

“Doctor Roza Petrovna. I’ll be the one leading procedures today.”

“Walk me through a typical process before we begin,” he orders, following her as she leads him through the room.

It’s complicated, mostly medical jargon that’s definitely above his pay grade, but there’s no bullshit. He can appreciate her clipped, no-nonsense explanations, even if he doesn’t quite understand every word out of her mouth.

“We begin with waking the body, slowly increasing the temperature in the cryo tube until we detect a heartbeat. Once internal temperature has reached the stage that neurons begin to fire, we administer medications. The cryo weakens the immune system significantly, so antibiotics are standard preventative measure. If all signs are stable we’ll administer adrenaline to wake the subject, monitor brain activity and muscular function. There should be little to nothing on the former if a proper wipe was done before storage, but one or two spikes aren’t unusual. It’s been trained to assess the environment for hostility first, so as long as it sees no threats its brain activity will adhere to baseline.”

“And if it doesn’t adhere to baseline?”

“We administer a strong sedative and attempt again in four to six hours.”

Rumlow nods, stepping around the chair in the middle of the room. “Blueprints for this have been sent to DC already, yes?”

“Yes. This entire section of the base is going to be backfilled with ten tons of concrete once we’re finished here. In a hundred years, it will be like it never existed.” They move on to the cryo tube and he glances in, watching that sleeping face. So much power, frozen until Hydra orders it active… Rumlow fights down a little shiver of excitement. Pierce is putting that weapon in _ his _ hands. Not to fight, this time… but next time… Oh, he can only hope for so much.

“Do you know the trigger words, Agent Rumlow?”

He nods shortly, fingers twitching at his side. He’d considered bringing note cards with the words and their pronunciations, but he hadn’t wanted to look unsure of his job. Maybe he should have written them on his arm, like a kid cheating on a test. “What’s the plan for transport?”

“You two will be flying back together on a civilian flight. We’ll instruct it on a baseline personality--able to speak for itself without permission, to answer simple questions, to divert more complex issues to you--and provide the two of you time to learn about each other. The asset requires certain upkeep when out of cryo, medication primarily. Long term exposure can result in some memory bleed, but a week shouldn’t present a problem. I’ll provide you a list of things to look out for that indicate the need for a wipe.”

“This all seems straightforward.” He follows her to an observation platform near the back of the room, leaning on a railing. “Memory bleed, you say? Like September, 1970?” His tone is casual, his glance to her nothing but polite--look at a person when speaking to them--but his eyes are sharp, he sees the way she tenses.

“I wasn’t working in this division at that time.”

“But you have access to files that weren’t included in my information packet. We have a week, doctor, and you expect this to go smoothly. Tell me about the mission failure.”

She curses under her breath in Russian, stepping closer and lowering her voice. “You Americans are so persistent in your search for knowledge you should not have.”

“It’s part of our charm. Tell me about the mission failure.”

“September, 1970. The asset was sent to America, to New Jersey, covertly. To Camp Lehigh, an Army training ground that was the building blocks of S.H.I.E.L.D. Hydra couldn’t get deep enough inside, the people there were too… _ insistent _ on their ways. So they sent the asset to retrieve an item. Have you heard of the Tesseract?”

He nods, his eyebrows drawing together. It was at Lehigh in the 70s? He’ll have to reread the files. “That’s what opened the portal in the sky over New York City a few months ago.”

“Ah, yes, when your Avengers saved the planet. America saves the day once more, you must be proud.” She pushes on, her words still quiet. “The asset was to retrieve the Tesseract for Hydra to study, to use. We had much greater dreams than just weapons of mass destruction. America had laid claim to the moon, but with the Tesseract, the Soviets could lay claim to far greater scientific advancements.”

“And it failed this mission. Its programming broke down.”

“You know who it was, before Zola took its brain apart and only put back the pieces we needed?”

“I do.”

Petrovna nods shortly. “As far as we can guess, somehow it saw something or someone that triggered the memories. A picture, perhaps. Maybe even of itself with your all-American _ hero_, Steve Rogers. It failed the mission, retreated, did not properly respond to handlers. It was sedated and returned, questioned.” She closes her eyes for a moment. “You heard the questioning, I assume.”

“Has it ever expressed fear or confusion under your command?” Rumlow asks, watching her face closely.

“Never. As far as I’m aware, that was the only time programming broke down once it was fully employed.”

Rumlow nods once in acknowledgement, turning back to watch the room. “Well. Let’s wake it up.”

The scientists bustle around the room, machinery up and running. Rumlow leans on the railing, watching as the frost slowly clears from the tube, as the flatlined heart monitor registers a single pulse, then slowly another and another. The neural monitor next to it remains flat, no brain activity, for several minutes. There’s an indicator in the corner, internal temperature of the subject, climbing by hundredths of degrees, from 20 (_Celcius_, he reminds himself) up towards less directly fatal levels.

Finally, the neural monitor moves, small pulses of activity. “Involuntary brain function, the medulla wakes first,” Petrovna explains, her voice low beside him. She speaks a command in Russian and two technicians move forward, injecting something into the IV lines that run into the cryo tube. Antibiotics.

They watch the monitors together, the steady heartbeat and low response of neural impulses. There’s one spike somewhere in the middle and when Rumlow looks back at the asset, his eyes are opened. Awareness of his surroundings, even when his internal temperature is still too low for any sort of muscular function to be possible. He is impressed.

The adrenaline shot comes almost five minutes later, the neural activity spiking as the drug cocktail takes effect. The baseline raises slightly, the heart rate increases, and two--three more spikes appear on the monitor. The techs have all backed away to a safe distance, but Rumlow and Petrovna stand in his line of sight, watching closely.

Rumlow meets the asset’s eyes thought the glass, the sharp gaze staying on him. “This is typical?”

“Within acceptable parameters. Your weapons may be making it respond stronger than typical.”

“I don’t go places unarmed.”

Petrovna nods slowly, speaking to the techs once more. They move slowly closer to the cryo tube, working efficiently at computers. One hooks a bag of saline to the IV line, beginning to let it drip in.

It’s like a freeze dried dinner, Rumlow muses with a little smile. Instant assassin, just add water.

They open the cryo tube eventually, once his internal temperature has reached almost normal levels, once his heart rate has stabilized from the adrenaline. He stumbles, like a newborn calf, unsteady and almost seeming blind. The asset drops into the chair, placidly allowing himself to be strapped down. Petrovna walks down from the observation deck, motioning Rumlow to follow her.

“We call it the mother duck moment,” she explains, walking up to the asset. “You tell it that you are its handler and it will imprint on you until the next wipe. Seek you out for assignment and… other assistance.”

Rumlow stands in front of the asset, watching him closely for a beat. Empty, just a shell, like a living doll. There’s no emotion on the face, in the eyes, no awareness of his surroundings--except the small uptick in neural processes when he’s in the asset’s line of sight, with his weapons. He lets another smile tug the corner of his mouth, speaking calmly and confidently, his Russian perhaps a bit flawed, but not terrible to his own ears.

The asset’s face changes immediately, from blank to something akin to relief. He looks up at him, big innocent eyes in the face of a machine designed for murder. Slowly, he nods, settling back into the chair. 

This is the asset, the Winter Soldier, Hydra’s perfect weapon… Sergeant James Barnes. 

This is the push towards order the world needs.

* * *

Petrovna instructs him on the drug administration process while the techs explain mission parameters to the asset. 

It’s all fairly standard, antibiotics, muscle relaxants, adrenaline shots. Most to be administered if needed. She passes him a pack of pills and he frowns, turning them in his hands. The writing on them is in Russian.

“Long term medication unfortunately doesn’t hold up to the freezes. These will need to be administered orally, once per day until it’s back in cryostasis. Try to do so close to the same time every day.”

“What are they?”

Petrovna’s smile is cold. “Heat suppressors. Did no one tell you that the asset is an Omega?”

Of course no one told him that. Something like the asset… Rumlow looks over his shoulder, turning the pill packet in his hand. Phenotype doesn’t designate body type, but everyone has their own internal biases. A body like that, musculature and height, of course he would assume an Alpha. _ Maybe _ a Beta. 

Then again, Barton is tall and muscular, and he’s certainly an Omega--Rumlow shuts thoughts of Barton off, tucking the pill pack into his pocket. “Anything else?”

“Don’t fuck it.” Petrovna raises an eyebrow at his incredulous snort. “I know how Alphas think, Agent Rumlow, I’ve worked with enough of them. Compliant and willing are two very different states of mind, and it is programmed to fight back against assault on its body, even from a handler. Unless you’d like your face to become much closer to, what do you call it, _ chunky salsa_, keep it in your pants.”

“If I want to fuck something that lies there and stares blankly at the ceiling, I’ll get a sex doll.” He huffs, crossing his arms. “Let’s go over the cover story again.” Normally, friends or lovers might work for a covert traveling pair, but with the age difference between himself and the asset, with the way the asset will be deferring to him for any intensive questioning, they’re required to come up with something else.

Luckily, there’s a war on.

“You are the former commanding officer of Private Boone. Both of you served in the Iraq war, and came to Russia to look into an advanced prosthetic for Boone. A shame it didn’t pan out. He suffers from intense PTSD, often shuts down in the face of authority. We have the paperwork ready, the notices and reasons for you to answer questions for him.”

The metal arm will be detached tomorrow for transport. Both for the cover story and for Rumlow’s safety. They’ll ship it back to DC before Rumlow and the asset leave. “If the paperwork here is as good as what we can produce in the US, I doubt we’ll have many questions to answer.”

“Russian authorities tend to be harsher on certain circumstances. Two men traveling together, even an Alpha and an Omega, will raise eyebrows. Americans and American military veterans will raise more.”

“You make this sound like the worst possible cover story, Doctor Petrovna.” He laughs a little, looking back to the asset briefly.

“It is more intended for getting you back into the US than getting you out of Russia. If you run across real trouble, offer money. You can pay surprisingly little for people to forget a surprising amount, over here.”

Rumlow nods, shifting his weight. He wants to get to the asset, start working with it. Covert isn’t new for him, but working covertly with a partner, he needs to know them. He needs to learn their body language, their thoughts, almost as well as his own. And of course, the asset will have to learn the same about him. 

It’s a job, Rumlow reminds himself, walking over to the asset. He takes a chair, turning it backwards and taking a seat, looking into those empty eyes. “You speak English, right? Are you ready to go to work, Soldier?”

For the first time, he speaks, his voice low and rusty, but surprisingly gentle. “Yes, sir.”

* * *

Working with the asset is something else. Rumlow gets him out for a few field tests, a few weapons trials with one arm. He learns within an hour of the soldier waking to be careful with words, with phrasing, with orders. _The Winter Soldier in action_ isn't something he needs a repeat of too early. Not until the time comes, not until he puts a gun to Petrovna's head and says it isn't personal. She doesn't even flinch, just closes her eyes in resignation. "I did my duty, Agent Rumlow. Do yours."

It's time to get out of Moscow as the local Hydra team backfills the science division, buries the bodies so deep no one will ever find them. A different driver drops the two of them off at the airport, handing over the suitcases and nodding once. He can appreciate competent people. Which just makes the rest of the day that much more frustrating. They turn some heads as they walk through the airport and he starts cursing whoever was put in charge of wardrobe for this little charade. Whether it’s the obvious “American Military Men” apparel they’ve been assigned or the blank-faced, one-armed man beside him, Rumlow isn’t sure.

The asset’s walking along complacency enough, wearing a sweater with the left sleeve tied off near the elbow, dark gray with a service logo on the breast. Heavy combat boots on his feet and dark pants on his legs. His hair is pulled back into a rough bun, the best Rumlow could do short of buzzing it down to military regulations.

Rumlow himself looks a little more the part, mostly because it isn’t much of an act. He’s got on a leather jacket with some patches on it, reminiscent of actual rank and squad assignment. Iraq War Veteran, the lettering on the back of the jacket declares him. He’s also been outfitted with combat boots and khaki pants, with a plain white shirt and aviator sunglasses to finish the look.

He’s sweating like a fucking pig and the asset’s face is flushed. Who the hell decided that a sweatshirt and a leather jacket were appropriate for July? Someone that’s only ever seen Russia on television, apparently, and doesn’t know it can get up to goddamn 80.

The airport at least is a little cooler. Rumlow passes the desk agent their passports and the medical notifications for “Boone,” keeping one eye on his charge as he speaks with her.

It takes longer than he wants it to, but eventually she nods, passes him back his paperwork along with some extra, and their tickets. “Security line three.”

The asset falls into step with him, speaking for the first time all day. “Security protocols, sir?”

“Do what they tell you. If they ask you questions that you can’t answer, show them this,” he passes the asset a small stack of papers, “and request Staff Sergeant Rumlow. If they give you difficulty, request Staff Sergeant Rumlow.”

There’s a soft hum beside him, the next words low to almost inaudible. “I don’t have to kill.”

There’s no time to be surprised, no time to ask questions about that--about the relief he swears he hears there. Rumlow pats the asset’s right shoulder gently. “You’re under strict orders not to engage in combat, Soldier.”

“Understood, sir.”

Security line three, it turns out, is expedited processing. The bored looking staffer takes his passport and paperwork, glancing at his face for only a moment before handing them back. “We hope you enjoyed your stay in Moscow, Mr. Rumlow. Next!”

Rumlow doesn’t move too far away, watching as the asset passes over the paperwork and passport. The staffer flips through it with a frown, before passing back most of it, only keeping the passport and other immigration paperwork. They must say something to the asset, because he looks quickly to him before facing the checkpoint again, mouth moving. Rumlow holds his breath, but after a moment, the staffer passes back all of the asset’s papers and calls for the next person.

“What was that?” He asks once they’re away from the checkpoint, giving up on the appearance and pulling his jacket off, folding it over his shoulder bag. He’ll have to remove it to pass through airport security anyways.

“A request to know if I lost my arm in the war. I confirmed.”

Rumlow nods, checking his paperwork again. Immigration security expedition, but not regular security. He sighs as he looks at the line, cursing civilian transport under his breath for the millionth time since getting this assignment. “Do what the security guards tell you. Keep this paperwork in your hand as long as possible.”

“Sir.”

There’s only a minor issue with the metal detectors and wands--the asset’s arm can be taken off, but not the metal base it’s wired to. Rumlow is allowed to join him and the small security team in the room, to speak for him as they conduct a strip search.

It costs him a hundred dollars to get them to just let the issue drop. Honestly, he’s a little disappointed that it’s so cheap.

“Here,” Rumlow instructs when they’re alone in the room, before the asset can put the sweatshirt back on. “You’re going to overheat in that, put this on instead.” He hands over a spare t-shirt from his bag, moving to the asset once it’s on, carefully tying the shortly sleeve. Partly for the illusion, mostly to cover the metalic housing of the asset’s prosthetic arm.

Twelve hours from now he’ll be back in DC, Rumlow reminds himself. Drop the asset off, do his mission report, and then he can call Barton. They can go out to the house.

He’s only a few days late on their date.

* * *

There are a lot of things that Rumlow should probably have put together sooner.

Like that Clint Barton doesn’t have a driver’s license.

“I got a pilot’s license, that’s good enough,” he says over the headset as they fly low away from the city, carefully out of DC’s restricted airspace. Rumlow holds onto one of the straps in the helicopter's front seat, watching the sunrise blaze gold in every window.

True to his word, he’d texted Barton that he was back as soon as the mission was cleared. He’d said he was going to grab a shower at the Triskelion, asked the man if he wanted to go out to the farm still--with mission wrap up at 0430, no one expected him to go to work that day. Barton had texted back a simple message: _ Helipad. 90 minutes. _

“Do you own this helicopter?” Rumlow asks now, as the city gives way to suburbs with actual yards behind buildings. They climb a few hundred feet, just high enough not to be a noise complaint, the slice of east coast stretching out before them. They’re flying away from the sun, chasing the night, and civil aviation is quiet at the crack of dawn, almost no chatter on their headsets besides each other.

“I’m… borrowing it. Tony won’t mind.” Barton laughs softly, shaking his head. “I doubt he’ll even notice unless Happy tells him.”

He snickers, reaching over carefully and touching Barton’s hand for a moment. Just enough to make his fingertips tingle. Just enough to say he’s there. “Sorry, again, that we had to postpone this.”

“Work comes first. I think that’s something we’re both too used to being true to change now.” He turns his hand carefully, letting his fingertips touch Rumlow’s for a moment. “Don’t stress about it. We’re making good on the plan now. This sort of thing will probably happen a lot.”

Barton can’t hold his hand and pilot at the same time, so Rumlow lets go, returns to watching the world around them. The suburbs give way slowly, the last grasps of the city finally releasing their hold in favor of open fields, forests, and long stretches of unlined blacktop. When those give way to dirt roads driven by battered farm pickup trucks, he knows they’re getting close. 

Barton sets them down in the weedy back field, focusing on powering down the rotors, on the landing checklist. He pulls his headset off, turning to Rumlow with a crooked grin, leaning in to kiss him slowly. “You wanna carry me over the threshold?”

“Oh, shut up. I’m pretty sure that the threshold won’t stand up to our combined weight.” Still, he cups Barton’s cheek and kisses him, slow and gentle. “Missed you while I was over there.”

They climb out of the helicopter together, make their way towards the back of the house. Barton lets out a low breath, laughing quietly to himself. “Oh my god.”

“I warned you. Pictures don’t do it justice.”

“It’s an absolute wreck.” He beams, leaning back into the Alpha as Rumlow’s arms wrap around him. “I love it.”

Words stutter on his tongue and he drops his head, presses his lips to Barton’s shoulder instead. _ I love you _ holds behind his closed lips, words with too much power to be spoken aloud. He’s not usually one to put a lot of weight to words, but those…

Those mean more than what they should.

If he loves Barton, if he’s _ in love _ with Barton, he’s failed his mission. He’s no longer just knocking up the Avenger, making him compliant, flipping him to Hydra. He’s… He’s… 

He’s the one changing, if he falls in love. He’s the one tearing down the order that so many men over the years have worked so hard to build up, throwing away the life he’s fought tooth and nail for since he turned 18 and walked out of his father’s house for the last time. 

He can’t love Barton. Not out loud.

Rumlow tightens his arms minutely, feeling the Omega’s weight settle back against him more firmly. “It’s yours,” he finally settles on answering, words that mean too much and not enough.

“_Ours_,” Barton corrects immediately, setting his hands over Rumlow’s, turning to press a kiss to the side of his head. “Let’s go inside.”

Nothing’s changed since Rumlow was here on his own, obviously, but seeing it all with Barton still puts a fresh perspective on the death trap. He points to different parts of the first floor, declaring the changes he’s going to make--hardwood in the living room and dining room, wide spaced tile in the kitchen. He’s going to take down the wall between the kitchen and the dining room, put an island as a divider, make a breakfast nook maybe.

Upstairs he heaves a sigh, nodding slowly. “Open up this wall, get to that back staircase. Get _ rid _ of that back staircase, make a bigger pantry than just under the stairs. Did you find the basement access last time? Or attic?”

“Neither.” He hadn’t even thought to look.

Barton guides him back through the kitchen, instructs him to wait as he carefully makes his way up the back stairs. He eases down them a minute later, grinning. “Master bedroom and master bathroom, just like I thought. Yeah, I can work with this.” He opens the pantry door under the stairs, crouching down and tapping the floor. “Ah-ha. Basement access here, it’s just nailed shut. Might have to relocate that, but I’ll take a look. I haven’t found the attic access yet, my guess is it’s in the ceiling of one of the upstairs closets.”

“How do you know there’s an attic?”

His grin is easy and self-assured, his hands coming up to form a brief triangle. “Peaked roof and flat ceilings in the bedrooms. If the bedrooms went right up to the roof, the walls would be pitched. They do that in Cape Cod style houses. Out here, there will be an attic, probably with a drop down ladder.”

Rumlow laughs, pulling him in and kissing him. “You are a nerd, Clint Barton.”

“Bet your ass I am.” Barton swats his flank lightly, leading him back outside and along the porch, talking about railings and swings and hanging planters. He looks across the weedy front yard, leaning on the precarious railing and letting out a content sigh.

“It’s home, Brock.”

Rumlow’s hands settle on his hips, his chin resting gently on Barton’s shoulder. “Tell you a secret?” He whispers, thumbs snaking under the other man’s shirt, rubbing gentle circles against his skin. “I knew it before I left that day you sent me out here… I stood right there,” he nods to the yard, “and looked back at it and… I pictured myself getting out of the truck and walking up those steps after a long week at work. Saw you welcomin’ me back, and…” He sighs, turning to press gentle kisses against Barton’s neck, closer and closer to his bonding gland. “And heard the footsteps of a couple’a kids running down to see their daddy. I saw myself coming home here.”

Maybe that’s too much, maybe it’s too soon, and maybe it’s too close to the words he can’t say. It’s out there, in the open, he can’t pull it back behind his walls now.

Barton turns slowly in his arms, holds his face and kisses him gently before pressing their foreheads together. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at him, breathes slow and steady. Maybe he can’t say the words, either. Maybe they hold too much power over him, too. 

Or maybe they’re just words that they don’t need to say to hear.

Slowly, reluctantly, Barton pulls away and continues his self-guided tour. He heads out into the back field, pokes into the barn, circles the house twice before finding the exterior basement door buried under a mound of dead ivy. There’s a padlock on it, rusted almost through, and Barton laughs. “Too bad Steve isn’t here, I bet he could snap this thing.”

“I have bolt cutters in my truck, but _ someone _ wanted to commit felony theft of private property to show off, instead of driving out here like a sane human being.”

They fuck around with the padlock for a minute or two before surrendering to the fact that the basement is currently inaccessible. 

The sun is high in the sky when they get back in the ‘copter, spin up and prepare for take off. Civil aviation has more activity this time of day, their flight plan and clearances taking some time to be granted. Not back to DC, not right away. They have to detour to New York, drop the bird off at Stark’s tower. Like it’ll never be missed. They can catch a train back to DC.

* * *

Lying in bed that night, too aware of how soon he needs to wake up and return to a normal day, Rumlow feels Barton shift in his arms, turn into him and murmur into his neck.

“You ‘wake?”

“Yeah.” He skates a hand along Barton’s spine, kissing the top of his head gently. It’s too hot out for clothes or blankets, just a thin sheet over their bare bodies, the fan spinning lazily overhead. “What’s up?”

“I…” Barton sighs into his skin, kissing the junction of his neck and shoulder gently. “I lied. B’fore.”

“What about?” The other man can probably feel the way his heart picks up, going over different conversations from that day, from before his Moscow trip, from the months that have passed.

“S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’ put me back on suppressors. They said no meds ‘til I was cleared for field work… So I told Tony and he set me up with his. They make me more like a Beta. No heat, no slick, but if ’m not careful, I can still have kids. S’why I made you use a condom.” He starts to turn away and Rumlow pulls him back, kisses his forehead in the dark. “Lasts for six months.”

There’s just enough ambient city light in the window for him to see the shine of tears in Barton’s eyes. Rumlow holds him gently, kisses him slow and soft. “Clint, I’m not mad. You’re protecting yourself, it makes sense. Besides…” He shrugs, bumping their foreheads together lightly. “In six months we might be in a completely changed world.”

“I jus’... had to tell you… ‘cause you’re always so honest with me…” Barton yawns, burrowing into him despite the humid air in the apartment. “Sorry… get some sleep.”

“You get some sleep, too.” 


	9. Cherry Blossom (You're About To Bloom)

It’s a good year for him. Some ups and some downs, but over all, he’d consider it a stellar year. He’s definitely had worse.

Rumlow gets to be the one to instruct Rogers on updating his hand to hand, rather than having to go head to head with the legend himself. He assigns Rollins that weekly ass kicking, though he’s not opposed to getting in the ring if he has to--as long as the Captain agrees to take it slow, to use maybe one percent of his superhuman strength.

He and Barton work on the house whenever they can, get most of the ground floor finished before summer ends, start on the upstairs as the temperatures begin to drop. None of it is a small project and they spend more than a few weekends out there sleeping curled up together in the bed of his pick up, halfway to convinced that if they step foot inside the house will collapse around them. By the time the first snow falls, they’re at least sure the house is structurally sound.

Hydra lets him take the asset out for a couple of spins, easy jobs by Winter Soldier standards but no less important. A senator from Wisconsin calling for transparency from groups Hydra has invested a little too much into gets silenced in a mysterious boating accident. The leader of a fringe religious group in Bangladesh abruptly commits suicide and instructs his disciples to follow--many of them do, over the next weeks. An Iranian national with Hydra secrets fleeing to England is intercepted in France, gunned down by an unknown source while his paperwork is being questioned by customs and immigration. Rumlow watches the asset work with something akin to admiration and lies through his teeth to Barton about where he is during these dirty little jobs.

Hydra has been good to him, and he’s been good to them in return. He remembers his life before, the unknowing, the uncertainty. He remembers wondering if he’d hear the bullet that ended up taking him out. Now he’s aiming the gun.

The only issue is Pierce, quietly questioning when he’s going to make his move with Barton. The Secretary wanted that mission wrapped up before Christmas but he’d managed to put it off by letting Barton’s covert suppressor use slip. He’d fudged the numbers, said it was a once a year thing. Now that year is almost up, and Rumlow spends a long afternoon locked in his office, laying out his options and rejecting them.

Barton’s next suppressor shot is due soon, he can make him skip it and get him pregnant when he goes into heat.

They’ve gotten closer and closer over the months, he can propose a bond.

He can _ force _ a bond.

He can lie to Pierce about how things are going.

Make something up for why the mission parameters have to change.

Rumlow closes his eyes, mentally sweeping all the options aside. One stays stubbornly, a sticky note under a stack of papers.

He can tell Barton the truth.

The thought makes him physically jerk away from his desk, eyes opening and darting around as if S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra’s ever-present cameras can read his mind. There’s no world where telling the truth ends well. There’s no world where he _ can _ tell Barton the truth. If he wants to go down that road, it ends in both of them dead when Insight launches. If he’s not dead as soon as he says the word ‘Hydra.’

Unless…

Rumlow taps a pen lightly on the edge of his desk, his eyes closing again. He’s having a dangerous thought, a _ very _ dangerous thought. A thought that should never cross his mind in a million years.

If Hydra fails, he’s free. If he helps Hydra fail from the inside, Barton will have to at least listen to him.

Love is dangerous, he reminds himself, nearly snapping the pen as his fist clenches down. Love makes smart men turn to stupid decisions. Love has no place in Hydra’s world.

Neither does he.

Rumlow glances at the calendar on the corner of his desk, ticking off time. Sitwell will be on the _ Lemurian Star _ next month. He has thirty-three days to start lining up the pieces.

* * *

Of all the suicidally _ stupid _ decisions he’s made over the years, Rumlow is pretty sure this one is always going to top the list. He’s also pretty sure he doesn’t have a choice.

He breaks away from Rollins in the hallway as Romanoff passes, taking two jogging steps to catch up with her before falling into step beside her. “Hey, Romanoff.”

“Don’t really have time to talk right now, Rumlow.”

“You have time to talk tonight? Grab a drink, maybe? I’m buying.”

Her gaze on him is sharp but unreadable, her steps slowing for only a beat. Whatever she sees must be enough. “The Six Hundred at 9.”

He nods quickly, watching her disappear into the elevator. Step one, complete.

600 T St. NW is, from all outside purposes, just a house. They’ve been there before, however, introduced by Romanoff to the cozy, speakeasy style bar. It’s certainly a change of pace from the sports bars he hits with S.T.R.I.K.E., and off the path of the more eclectic bars he’s been introduced to with the DC-based Avengers, but the menu is good and the atmosphere is exactly what he wants.

Romanoff shows up exactly as his watch beeps the hour, strolling up to him in a short dress and tall heels. She takes his arm, leaning in to press a greeting kiss to his cheek. “How secretive are we being?”

“Clint thinks I’m working late. And work thinks I’m at my apartment.”

She raises her eyebrows, patting his pockets subtly before nodding. “No phone. So this isn’t asking for my permission to propose a bond to your boyfriend.”

Rumlow leads her inside, shaking his head quickly. “I wish. No, this is more along the lines of a ‘hey where do I want the Russian spy to hide my body if I’m wrong’ kind of evening.”

They take a corner booth, barely glancing at the menu in the low candlelight. They don’t come to this speakeasy often, but the drinks are simple and the menu doesn’t change much. Whiskey for him, vodka for her, a waiter who knows when to leave people alone.

Romanoff sips her drink, her eyes on his face. Scrutinizing, trying to read his angle before he announces it. “Okay, I’ll bite.”

“That is such a concerning statement coming from the _ Black Widow_.”

She laughs easily, nodding for him to continue.

He can’t do this alone. He needs someone on the other side to back him up. He needs _ her _ working the same angles he’s going to try for. “How much do you know about the history of S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

“Plenty.” Studying him, not giving too much of herself away. He made either the right choice or the absolutely wrong one.

“Did you know that after the war, S.H.I.E.L.D. recruited scientists from the special weapons division of the Schutzstaffel?”

Romanoff pauses with her drink at her lips, her eyebrows creasing faintly. She takes a slow sip, setting it down again. “You’re talking about Hydra.”

She’s too fast at putting things together, making him jump ahead in the script he’s been practicing. Rumlow nods quickly. “Cut off one head, two more take its place. Cap took down Schmidt seventy years ago, but stopping one man doesn’t stop an entire organization. Hydra’s been growing under corrupt governments since the war. The Soviets and now…” He glances around the room, shrugging. “Well, nothing is sacred, right?”

“Rumlow if you’re just messing with me…” Even she doesn’t believe her words, it’s written all over her face. Romanoff sits back, watching him closely. “How much of you do they have?”

“Too much for me to do anything about it and live. You think they let an asshole like me be S.T.R.I.K.E. Commander on battlefield merit alone?” He shakes his head, laughing ruefully and taking a drink. “I’m good at keeping order, and Hydra thrives on order.”

“You have any proof?”

“Plenty, but if I let it go, I’m gonna be found with a self-inflicted bullet wound to the brain. Why do you think I’m telling you this, and not Rogers?”

Romanoff nods slowly, her eyes never leaving his face. “So what’s your play?”

“I keep doing what I’m doing. Leading S.T.R.I.K.E., making friends with Cap to keep his guard down, following orders. I let the end of the world play out and take my place in the new one Hydra’s going to build from the ashes of the old. _ But,_” he holds up a finger, “maybe someone like Fury gets a bug in his ear that something is off. That some upcoming big launch isn’t for the purpose he’s been lead to believe. That the world’s security blanket is actually a pillow meant to smother it.”

“That’s such a terrible analogy, do you know how long it actually takes to smother someone with a pillow?” She sighs, pushing strands of red hair back behind her ear. “Okay… I can work with this. But if it comes down, you’re going to have to figure out where you want to land. Playing triple agent isn’t for everyone, and one side or the other might just forget who you’re really working for.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.” He finishes his drink, sitting back and closing his eyes. “If you’re asked, and you might be, this little meeting was all about me asking your permission to propose a bond with my boyfriend.”

Her eyes narrow for a moment, assessing him. “Is he still your boyfriend, or is he some sort of… _ reward _ for your good behavior with Hydra?”

“A year ago I got tapped to go down to Res 3 and knock up an Avenger who was in heat. Flip him to Hydra, really twist the knife in Cap’s gut when the world came crashing down around him and one of his friends stood by our side--whether Barton wanted to be there or not. I altered the mission parameters because I knew Barton wouldn’t fall for something as simplistic as ‘a family keeps an Omega compliant’ after about two days. Somewhere along that way, I…” Ten months ago, he remembers it too well. In Barton’s bed, the two of them naked or close to it, breathing in each other’s scents, each other’s wants. _ Smother all your pain with good memories. _ “He stopped being a mission and was just Clint.”

“You fell in love.” Not a question, not a judgement. A statement of fact that still manages to dig into every insecurity he’s ever had.

“Hydra still wants me to complete my mission. I suggested he be taken off S.H.I.E.L.D.’s active duty roster a year ago. I suggested he be taken off suppressors so I’d have more chances to do what I couldn’t that first time. I lied and said that he had taken a covert long term suppressor after his heat, one that would last a year. Time’s running out on a lot of fronts. I’ve got less than a month to make good on my mission or I won’t be able to help you from the inside.” He closes his eyes, not wanting to see her face after that rush of information. “I’m not going to bond him unless he wants me to.”

“You should be telling Clint this.”

Rumlow’s eyes open again, meeting her gaze briefly before looking away. Tell Clint that he’s been using him? That their relationship is--was--just a mission? The thought makes his heart hammer into his throat, his palms growing sweaty and his mouth going dry. Barton would leave him. Would _ hate _ him. He can’t. He won’t. Not until the dust settles and they come out of it alive.

“Then again,” she hums, taking the last sip of her drink, “love makes you make stupid choices, I hear. I’ll do what I can from my side. Just make sure you can keep up your act. You’re a soldier, Brock, not a spy.”

“I can handle myself.”

“Oh, one last thing.” Her tone is lighter, her eyes bright as she slides out of the booth. “If you have a daughter, you name her Natasha.”

* * *

Eight months into the project and the house is damned near liveable full time. They still need to finish the upstairs bathroom and add more insulation to the attic (accessed, they’ve finally found, from the master closet), but all the drywall is up, there’s fresh paint in every room, the new floors are in… It’s home.

Rumlow looks around the yard, riotous with early spring growth, and takes a sip from his beer bottle before pushing off the back deck railing. They expanded the wraparound porch out here, turned what was the porch into a screened sunroom off the kitchen with couches and a table, added a deck out into the yard. He lets himself in the screen door now, then the sliding glass door, crossing the kitchen with its new countertops and top of the line appliances. He presses himself to Barton’s back at the island, kissing the back of his neck lightly. “What’s on the agenda this weekend, Clint?”

“Mmm…” Barton arches back into him, turning his head to steal a kiss. “Upstairs bathroom plumbing and if we’re feeling ambitious, putting up the shelves in the pantry.” He turns in Rumlow’s arms, kissing him slowly. “But first, I believe I left you some dirty voicemails that have all sorts of suggestions for what you should do to me this weekend.”

“Son of a bitch, one of these days I’ll remember to clean out my mailbox.”

“So you keep saying, Brock.” Barton lets himself be lifted up by his thighs, legs wrapping around Rumlow’s hips as he’s set on the island’s countertop. “Should I repeat the messages for you?”

“Anything you particularly remember.”

Barton’s filthy words fill the air between kisses, his requests for absolute debauchery, his terms of blasphemous endearment. Rumlow gets him off the counter as he details how much he’d like to get bent over the front porch railing and fucked with his shoes still on (“or cowboy boots, god, and maybe a hat--” “absolutely not a cowboy hat”), carries him upstairs to the bedroom. They stop at the corner of the hallway, where there used to be a wall, for Rumlow to plant hot kisses lower and lower on Barton’s neck, for the Omega to impatiently yank his shirt off and throw it into a pile of drop cloths. Finally in the bedroom, they drop onto the bed, bodies hot and pressed tight together.

“Fuck, Brock… Need your knot…” Barton arches up, wriggling impatiently in an effort to get his pants off.

Rumlow steps back with a grin, tugging his own shirt up and over his head, descending on Barton again with rough kisses and gentle hands. They get their pants off, both groaning as their bare skin presses together.

“Did you bring more condoms?” Barton asks between kisses, tilting his head back and jerking his chin towards the drawer. “We used the last one last time.”

“Shit. Knew I forgot something.” He groans, rolling to the side, and squeezing himself briefly. “I can take a cold shower and run to the store, be back in an hour?”

Barton bites his lip, looking up at the ceiling. “We could go without.”

“Clint--”

“It’s been a year. S.H.I.E.L.D. isn’t putting me back in the field, we both know it. They would have months ago if they were going to. Face it, I’ve been retired. I can take the risk. Besides…” He reaches over, finds Rumlow’s hand and squeezes it. “I’ve been wanting to feel you inside me for a long time now.”

Rumlow rolls over to him, kissing him slow and gentle. “Wanting your Alpha’s cum, huh? Was that on the voicemail?”

“Think I called you somethin’ a bit dirtier than just my Alpha. Now c’mon…” He squirms as fingers trail down his side, legs opening. “Make me scream your name. I know you get off on hearing that.”

“Guilty.” 

He makes quick work of kissing down Barton’s torso, nuzzling into the jut of his hip bone, teasing the skin with his teeth. It’s one of his Omega’s most sensitive spots, Rumlow’s had the pleasure of discovering, almost as erogenous as the bonding gland on his neck. His fingers curl around the backs of Barton’s thighs, prodding into his slick entrance, circling his twitching rim teasingly.

“Roll over, onto your stomach, hips up,” he commands softly, sitting up and guiding Barton into position. He leans in, licking up the slick that’s trailed up from his hole to his lower back, making his way closer and closer to the source. He holds Barton’s hips and opens him, tongue probing into his entrance gently. The pillow he’s clutching against his face barely muffles Barton’s gasp. 

“Brock…”

“Mm?” He flicks his tongue, presses deeper, then pulls back, slowly fucking his Omega with the appendage. Not enough, not nearly enough, but it’s got Barton downright dripping, the sharp taste of arousal in his slick. 

“More, please, c’mon…” Barton’s hips jerk with Rumlow’s tongue, pushing back, looking for something deeper, something bigger.

He pulls back with one last lick, wipes a hand against his mouth and chin before plunging two fingers into Barton’s reddened hole. He circles them slowly, scissors them a little, and adds a third easily. “Fuck, Clint, you’re so wet…”

“Antici…” He lets out a low whine, rocking his hips back as Rumlow’s other hand goes to his cock and starts stroking. “P-pation. Fuck, please…”

He circles his thumb over Barton’s slit, still gently opening him up. They’ve fucked a lot since that night at Barton’s apartment, in both of their beds, out here at the farm, and in the back of his truck on a few memorable occasions. At Avenger Tower in New York, though it had been a little awkward with the knowledge that Stark’s security system was probably watching them. Hell, they’d even fooled around in a couple of bar bathrooms, when they got drunk enough to want to risk getting caught.

They’ve never done penetration without a condom, though.

“Clint,” Rumlow breathes out his name, leaning over him and speaking close to his ear. “Are you sure you want this?”

“Yes.” With effort, Barton turns his head, meets his gaze and smiles. “A thousand times yes. I want you to fuck me, to knot me, to cum inside me. I don’t care that you don’t have a condom on.”

“Don’t know if I’ll be able to stop myself once I start, if you change your mind.”

“Pretty sure I can stop you if I need to.” Barton cranes his neck, reaches back and tangles his fingers in Rumlow’s hair. It’s uncomfortable, bordering on painful, but he manages to pull their lips together in a kiss. “Now fuck me, Brock.”

There’s no more permission he can be granted. Rumlow shifts his hips, lines up and with one solid thrust, drives himself in. They both moan, nearly scream, at the sensation. Overwhelming _ heat _ around him and who knows what he feels like inside Barton without that thin latex barrier, but this? This is nearly heaven.

Rumlow makes it last, rocking his hips minutely, stroking Barton’s cock again through a fast orgasm. He shudders, drawing out almost completely just to feel the muscles around him squeeze, before pressing in again.

“Ride me,” he whispers suddenly, holding onto Barton’s hips, pulling him back as he rolls over onto his back. He settles Barton on top of himself, turns him around while somehow staying buried inside him, and rocks his hips up slowly. “Lemme see you take it, Clint.”

“Now I really... want a... cowboy hat,” Barton pants out, his thighs shaking with the effort to lift himself and lower himself, soon giving up and just gyrating his hips, rocking down steadily on Rumlow’s cock. He whines low in the back of his throat, head tipping back with pleasure, oversensitive cock twitching.

“Next t--_fuck_\--next time.” He grasps Barton’s sides, thrusting up into him, feeling his knot start to swell, start to bump against his rim. “‘M close…”

“Do it, Brock…” Barton leans forward, braces his hands on Rumlow’s chest and stares down at him. He squeezes again, groaning and pushing himself lower, starting to take his Alpha’s knot in. “C’mon, knot your Omega like a good Alpha.”

“Oh, god…” He jerks up at the same moment that Barton presses down, locks himself fully inside his Omega’s slick, hot body. Muscles squeeze his knot and Rumlow almost screams, thrashing his head from side to side. How is it this much better without a condom? How are they supposed to go back to condoms after this?

His world goes white, all of his focus on the sensation of Barton around him, muscles trembling and tightening with another orgasm. He swears he can feel every pulse of his cum pumping into his Omega--_his _ Omega, his mate, his everything. Reality swims back in soft grays, in the feeling of moisture dripping onto his face.

Rumlow looks up, his eyes widening immediately, scrambling to pull Barton down against himself. “Shhh… don’t cry, don’t cry, what’s wrong? Clint, talk to me,” he murmurs into his Omega’s hair, rubbing his shaking shoulders.

“I… No, I’m okay. I just… you called me yours an’...” He pushes himself up to wipe his face, giving a weak smile. “We don’t say stuff like that a lot. Makes it special when I hear it.”

Rumlow frowns for a moment, before gently holding Barton’s cheeks, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “Mine. You’re my Omega, Clint. And I’m your Alpha. All mine, all yours.” He lets Barton lie back down, their sticky torsos flush together, rubs his back slowly until his knot goes down and they can shift position, get a little more comfortable.

It’s too early in the evening to sleep, but they lie in bed together until their growling stomachs get the better of them. They take a short shower together, mostly to conserve what little hot water they have (“bigger hot water heater before fall,” Barton promises), pull on clothes haphazardly and go to find dinner.

Much later that night, after the sun has set, as the first fireflies dance across the moonlit back yard, Rumlow joins Barton out on the screen porch. He curls around his Omega on the couch, kissing the side of his neck gently. “Mine.”

“Mine,” Barton whispers back, leaning into him.

It’s the last time Rumlow truly feels at peace.


	10. (As Long As There's A Light) My Shadow's Over You

Romanoff finds what she’s looking for on the _ Lemurian Star_. Sitwell launches the Insight satellite with Zola’s program. Rumlow pretends like he doesn’t know more than he wants to about any of it.

When Pierce tells him to bring the Asset out of cryo for a priority elimination, he’s not surprised to see Fury as the target. What surprises him is how easily he forgot that the asset could become a player in this. It isn’t Bucky Barnes anymore, Hydra put its brain in a blender too many times, but…

Would Rogers believe that?

He almost voices this concern to Pierce, when the asset fails to eliminate Fury downtown and goes to Rogers’ apartment to finish the job. Rogers says they made contact, but when asked about the man on the roof, the man with the shield, the asset only has one answer.

“That was not my objective.”

He’s aware of how poorly Fury’s death is going to reflect on him.

Rumlow gets one chance with Rogers, during the carnage in the elevator. He watches as the Captain single-handedly takes down ten of S.T.R.I.K.E.’s toughest: the whole of Alpha and Bravo teams, plus two recruits brought in as muscle. When it’s just the two of them, Rumlow holds up his hands, stun batons at the ready.

“Whoa, there, big guy…”

“Rumlow…”

“Cap, I just want you to know…” Footsteps on the other side of the metal door. _ Someone is always watching. _ “This ain’t personal.” He attacks, one on one, gets in a surprisingly good hit or two before he’s tasting his own blood in his mouth and hoping that maybe, somehow, his message got across.

Barton’s out at the farm, far away from the mayhem. It’s a small consolation.

While S.T.R.I.K.E. licks their wounds and gets ripped up one side and down the other by Pierce for their failure to capture the Captain, Rogers and Romanoff manage to meet up. They manage to get their hands on the data from the _ Lumerian Star _ and access the information. S.T.R.I.K.E. scrambles to the mall to fan out and search.

He’s a soldier, not a spy, but Rogers and Romanoff are his friends, as well. Rumlow takes the escalator up to help sweep the second floor, turning to look over his shoulder at the pair kissing on the downward escalator. The woman’s eyes are open, watching him, and he deliberately turns away from her gaze. Let them go. It’s the only answer.

He’s not sure the two of them can do it on their own, but he is sure that the missile that decimates Camp Lehigh isn’t enough to kill them. Rogers is tactical and Romanoff is brilliant, it’s going to take something more precise than a guided missile strike to take them down working together.

Something like the asset.

Rumlow keeps his team back as the asset works, well aware of the carnage that’s going to come. Besides, S.T.R.I.K.E. has an appearance to keep up, as long as there’s an outside world. He doesn’t know if Rogers hears him, but he tries anyways.

“Don’t chase the ghost, Captain.”

The plan is short but simple. Himself, Rollins, Jackson, Tolvey, Burke, Morrison, and Parsons. Rollins driving the front van with him; Jackson driving the prisoner transport with Tolvey and Parsons guarding in the back; Burke driving the last transport with Morrison. He has no doubt that Rogers and Romanoff will come up with a way out, that the two of them and their new winged friend (who is disturbingly familiar, a nagging thought in the back of his mind keeps whispering) will get away. And if they don’t…

If they don’t, he’ll shoot his guys and let them out. Come clean about all of it. Throw himself on the mercy of Captain America.

“Three holes, start digging,” he orders, walking around to join Jackson at the back of the prisoner transport, his gun at the ready. It’ll be a shame to put down his team, they’re good at what they do, but that also makes them dangerous. He can only play triple agent so long before those closest to him notice his wavering allegiances.

The only thing in the back of the van when they open the doors is Tolvey’s unconscious body. Rumlow turns his smirk into a snarl, wonders just who managed to fit into Parsons’ armor so well. The man is miniscule, especially for an Alpha.

There’s no question, Pierce will want to speed up the Insight launch now. The next morning. They better get ready.

* * *

Vaguely, somewhere in the back of his mind that’s not currently flooded with adrenaline, Rumlow remembers assessing Cameron Klein when the man first got the job. _ Pushover_, he’d decided back then. Maybe not so easily manipulated, but easily coerced with a little flash of force. Someone, he thinks Tolvey, had been supposed to monitor him and provide a report on the best way to make him cooperate.

Well, a gun to the back of the head works on most people.

> _ We need the ships in the air. Sucks and cuts it close, but that’s how this has to play. :( Keep being the bad guy until you can get to top level conference rooms. xoxo _

Romanoff better know what the fuck she’s doing. Her text message an hour ago is the only communication they've had--and he's only guessing that it's actually her that sent it.

“Move away from your station.” The spike of fear coming off Klein is palpable, the tremble in his raised hands. Terrified but holding his ground, maybe Rumlow was wrong.

The firefight in the control room is short lived. Klein goes down under the desks and Rumlow gives him a swift kick in the leg to keep him there--safest place, below the line of fire--as he preempts the launch himself. He sees Jackson take a bullet to the neck as he runs from the room, Burke backing out behind him, leaving their squadmate’s body. Rollins, Morrison, and Tolvey are upstairs already. Whatever Romanoff’s doing, she’s going to have to handle the three of them, too.

“Where are we going, sir?” Burke asks, jogging behind him, falling into a standard two-man infiltration position. He keeps his back to Rumlow, trusting his CO to lead the way around any danger.

Rumlow stops at a stairwell, pressing the gun he stole from the blonde agent into the back of Burke’s neck. “You’re not goin’ anywhere, Burke.”

“Sir?” His shoulders are stiff, his fingers twitching around the grip of his handgun.

“Fuck Hydra. Fuck S.H.I.E.L.D. Fuck all of it. Let it all burn to the ground.”

Despite the mortal danger, Burke’s shoulders shake with a little laugh. “Never thought I’d live to see the day you turned on us, sir.”

“You didn’t.”

The single gunshot is loud in the hallway, and Rumlow’s hurrying up the stairs before Burke’s body has dropped.

He’s got thirty-something flights to climb, his legs burning after ten. His comms are crackling in his ear, confusion loud over the line, the remnants of S.T.R.I.K.E. looking for their commander, looking for order. He hears more than a few of his men (_good men_, he thinks with a little twinge of regret, _ good men led astray_) go down in the process.

His footsteps are slowed to a stop as his phone rings and Rumlow frowns, picking it up. It’d been a stupid risk to bring it, maybe, but the tracking chip in there isn’t really going to tell them much--he’s in the building, big surprise.

He damn near lets the call go to voicemail without looking at it, but his mailbox is still full and this could be mission relevant.

“Rumlow.”

“Brock, it’s Clint.”

Fear sizzles into his chest, freezes his heart cold for a second. He’d kissed his Omega goodbye a week ago, out at the farm, told him that he’d see him again soon. At the time, he’d hoped it wasn’t a lie. Now it’s starting to feel like that.

“Clint, I… Now’s not the best time…”

“I know, you’re at work. But…” Barton breathes down the line, slow and steady. “I just… I didn’t want to wait to tell you. I’m pregnant.” He barely whispers the words and through the phone, Rumlow swears he hears a shake in Barton’s voice. “You’re gonna be a daddy.”

“How… How? I thought you were--you know, the Beta shot.” He needs to keep going upstairs, needs to rendezvous with Romanoff and pull off the rest of this plan. Thirty-fifth floor, fifteen to go.

“They're not one hundred percent, even if they suppress heat. And… Brock, are you okay?”

‘Okay’ is the last thing he is, but he’s not going to say that. Rumlow continues upstairs, trying to keep his breathing even. “Clint, I don’t… I don’t say it enough, but I love you. I love you, and I’m yours.” He swallows, pressing his back to the wall, watching another firefight through the stairwell access door. There goes Charlie team. “Are you at the farm?”

“Wh… Brock, what’s going on? I’m in New York, why are you--oh my god. What’s happening at S.H.I.E.L.D.? Are you okay?!”

Barton’s in New York. His stomach turns to a frozen ball of ice and drops all the way to the deepest sub basement of the Triskelion. “You’re going to hear some terrible things about me soon. Some terrible, true things, but I want you to know that this is true more than any of them: I love you. I’ll do anything for you.”

Forty-first floor, top of this stairwell. The top ten floors have their own access from the other side of the building. He needs to hang up and get over there.

“I love you, Brock, I… If you’ll do anything for me, then come home to me. Promise me that. You’re my Alpha and I need you. We’re both going to need you.”

Rumlow closes his eyes, leaning on the access door. He breathes out slowly. “If our baby’s a girl, name her Natasha, okay? I made a deal with someone. I love you. Goodbye.” He can’t promise to come home. He can’t break a promise like that.

“Brock? Brock! God dammit, ans--” Rumlow disconnects the call and drops his phone, pushing out into the hallway. The executive access stairwell is in the southwest corner of the building, past two S.T.R.I.K.E.-guarded security checkpoints.

On the off chance that Romanoff is listening and can get him some information or maybe some backup, he announces his position. “Rumlow, on the forty-first floor, heading for the southwest stairwell.”

Most of the floor is abandoned. Most of it. He takes a good punch to the head from someone, turns to see a familiar face. Sam Wilson, Air Force, his old running buddy? Rumlow grits his teeth, looking him up and down quickly. “_You _ were the one flyin’ around on the bridge with the Captain?”

“Man, I shoulda known you were one of those types. No room for Betas in your world, right?”

“You’re outta your depth, kid.” He’s fighting his ally, but apparently Romanoff hasn’t felt the need to mention to anyone else that he’s on their side. Fine. He can kick this guy’s ass just enough to slow him down and get upstairs. Rumlow shrugs off his flak vest, watching Wilson closely. “Like I told Cap, this ain’t personal. It’s just orders.”

“Shut the hell up.”

He’ll give credit where it’s due, Wilson is good. Way out of his league in hand to hand, but getting him to go down and _ stay _ down takes longer than Rumlow wants it to. He needs to get up to Romanoff. He needs to be able to promise Barton that he’ll come home.

Wilson is on the ground, groaning with pain, looking at him. His eyes widen and he scrambles to his feet, gaze moving past Rumlow.

With a second to spare, Rumlow looks over his shoulder at the wreck of the helicarrier barreling towards the building.

They both try to outrun it, Wilson yelling something into his comm about a chopper and his location. He darts a glance back at Rumlow and puts on a burst of speed, bracing his arms up as he dives through a window.

Two steps from following him, Rumlow’s luck runs out. He gives a single shout of surprise as rubble falls onto him, pins him to the floor and then plummets him through it. Jet fuel and blood splash across his face and start to burn.

It takes a long time for him to pass out and once the pain stops being all he can focus on, once his nerves are damaged to the point of dead and he’s screamed so long his throat is bleeding, Rumlow replays his phone conversation with Barton again and again in his head.

_ I love you. You’re gonna be a daddy. I love you. Come home to me. I love you. You’re my Alpha and I need you. I love you. We’re both going to need you. _

_ I love you. _

_ I love you. _

_ I... _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, as canon tells us, I didn't use the Major Character Death tag for a reason................
> 
> Part 2 of the series will begin posting on Friday, 11/15, and follow the same update schedule as this. Hope you all can wait two weeks! ;)
> 
> Meanwhile, feed me comments! We left off with a hell of a lot to talk about, I hope. I mean, Clint's pregnant! And even as fast and loose as I play with a/b/o stuff, not being bonded (and Brock being presumed dead) has gotta be problems waiting to happen, right? And man, Nat never told anyone that Brock flipped sides! Maybe she didn't believe him?
> 
> Comment with your speculation, I wanna know what you guys think is gonna happen next!


End file.
